The Spoils of War
by InsanityInReverse
Summary: [Formerly titled 'Equilibrium'] The year is 1944. In the midst of battle, Canada comes eye to eye with a wounded Prussia who, despite the waging war, does not pull the trigger. Just when the world needs it most, two nations cross borders, seeking comfort in just another person. [PruCan]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **;; Hello, readers, and welcome to **The Spoils of War**, a WWII PruCan story I've been planning to write for quite a while now, ever since I got really pulled into the fandom. It took me a while, but I've finally gathered all my courage and all the research I thought I would need, and began to write it. I've put a lot of time into this story, to make it the very best I can, so I only hope that readers of this story will take a little bit of time out of their day and review this. If I can improve in any way, tell me. This is story is not perfect – nor will it ever be – but I can't improve myself unless my readers tell me what I _need _to improve on.

**A warning ahead of time: **Guys, the romance in this story will move **very, very slowly**. If you are looking for confessions of love within the first two chapters and the romanticising of war, you will **not **find it here. This story is not about the romance for me. This story is about the emotions of the characters, their actions and the consequences following those actions, and the motivations to drive the characters to do what they do. This story does not downplay war, nor does it make it look pretty or funny. To be honest, part of the reason I even put a pairing in here in the first place is because I've never seen a multi-chapter PruCan WWII story that was handled correctly, and I wanted to try my hand at creating one of my own. I wanted to see if I could craft a proper romance, even amongst the horrors of war. Whether or not I've succeeded at that is up to the readers.

In advance, the 'M' rating for this story is not because of sexual situations. It is because of the descriptions of war and violence that I included. I felt as though they were a little too detailed to slip by on the 'T' rating. If there is any type of specific situation that I think deserves a warning of its own, there will be one at the top of the chapter where it is located.

**First edit: **May 2013 – fixed some grammar/sentence structure, adjusted little parts of the plot, added characters, extended chapters, adjusted slight headcanons, and made them easier to understand, attempted to (and failed to) fix the atrocity that was chapter four, and corrected German/other used languages. I just made the story a whole lot more coherent for everyone, basically. **  
Second edit: **July 2013 – don't worry, returning readers, there are no plot changes. I just further improved my headcanon explanations, and tried to improve my interpretations of the characters. I cleaned up the story a bit more, is all.

More edits are sure to come.

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**The Spoils of War  
****Chapter One  
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The cold rain dripped in through the broken walls and crumbling ceiling, darkening the high wooden beams streaked with the remaining carbon traces of long dead fires. The drops of water fell down to gather on the frames of the few photographs lying face up on the floor, the sombre, greyscale faces of the families depicted in the photos smudged away with the water, the shattered glass casing in pieces amongst the ruined remains of the house. Each home, each building, where people had once lived and thrived, was as silent as a grave. It didn't matter where he went – it was all the same.

The once mundane, peaceful lives of the city's citizens lingered in the faded blue shutters hanging from the rusty hinges; on the dirty, matted face of a child's teddy bear; in the limp body of what was once a bright sunshine-yellow canary – one that was, thankfully, not his own. His bird was safe, dry, uninjured, and certainly not dead. This creature, however, was stiff, cold, and wet against the cream bars of its cage, hanging in the hollow wind, swaying on a hook in the breeze.

The town had been tainted by blood and violence – just like all the others, just like all the land invaded before it, it had been uprooted and thrown into chaos, captured by the Allied soldiers, to which it would be used as a base until they set their eyes on the next piece of history they wanted to destroy. The air was haunted by the scary quiet after an air-raid, a silence that had the remaining soldiers, if they were any at all, holding their breaths, stilling all movement, clutching their guns in a vice grip, their thoughts running a million miles a minute. They had survived another attack, survived where others didn't, but a question still hung drearily over their heads, dampening any relief they might have felt: Would they endure until the next sun rise?

Nothing but silent anguish was etched into every brick, in every piece of rubble, in every body that lay in the streets, bleeding and mangled under the feet of enemies and comrades and citizens alike. The breeze rattled through the narrow spaces between buildings, disturbing the careful stillness, bringing the faintest of sounds to Prussia's perked ears, undoubtedly aware of every creak and whine he heard, his sense of paranoia spiking more than ever.

Death – an ugly stain on the once quaint cobbled streets. In the muddy waters of one of the narrow canals, debris and dirt washed away with the rising water levels, floating off to God knows where, to be dumped and forgotten wherever they landed. He could see tattered clothing and splintered wood, bodies and prized possessions all floating through the water, with no one left to claim them. There was no life to be seen in the entire town. Not even on the trees – stripped of leaves as summer ended and autumn began.

There was no life at all – except for him. Hidden in the gap between a blown out wall and a toppled dresser, where the bricks fell away and the floor ended in jagged pieces, Prussia lay, his body numb from where the cold had embraced his limbs and the rain drenched his uniform. There wasn't a trace of feeling in the single finger he had wrapped around the trigger of his rifle. There was no aching in his joints. Even his shivering had died down to utter stillness. His body was numb, save for the pain and discomfort stemming from his gut that continued to persist even as the rest of his body succumbed, the blood leaking from the wound making a continually spreading pool that soaked through the carpet beneath him in watered down pink and red.

Prussia let out a slow breath, feeling his wound clench as he did so.

It was a slow process, his death. But, that was to be expected – nations hardly ever died quickly, much less former empires. Only the ones forged in war were lucky enough to have that privilege, and he wasn't one of those nations. He had been dying for a long time, longer than he had previously thought – and he had been feeling the effects for even longer. It hadn't started when Germany had taken away his title as an independent nation, unknowingly quickening his demise, or when he and Germany had merged to create their empire, when he had gracefully stepped aside to let his little brother take over, watching Germany rule as a proud father might have. No, it hadn't been either of those times. His downfall had started, he supposed, with the death of Old Fritz. No one could lead him and his country – no, his _empire _– quite the way Old Fritz had. There was no ruler that Prussia, as both a nation and a person, could love quite as much as he did Fritz. There was no king that could unknowingly endear himself so well and bring so much prosperity, despite his mistakes, to the great nation he ruled.

He could fondly recall riding to battle with Fritz by his side, stomping Austria and France into the ground, and later sharing a bottle of wine as they laughed and discussed further battle tactics. He remembered the approval he had seen in his king's eyes when he returned from a battle and announced them victorious against their enemies, how elated he had felt to receive that little half-smile, to know that he had pleased his king. He remembered many a night when Fritz would play his flute, weaving intricate songs for Prussia's ears alone. And other nights, where Fritz would write poetry by candlelight, and Prussia would be free to observe his king as much as he wanted, often hiding his roving eyes behind a book. They had been a team, a duo, and a pair of partners – just as a nation and its ruler were meant to be.

Of course, his people, nor Prussia himself, had ever been the same after the death of their beloved king. He just hoped that Old Fritz wouldn't be too disappointed in him for losing his title as a Kingdom, forced down to nothing but a Free State, Prussia in name only, by his own little brother. He just hoped that wherever Fritz was, if he was looking down on him from Heaven, that he wasn't wearing that little disappointed frown, the one that had continually ate away at Prussia's heart whenever he had been faced with it. He just hoped that when Fritz realized that he wasn't going to be able to build himself up again, he wouldn't be too angry.

He just hoped the next time he saw Old Fritz that he would be able to face him with dignity.

With he and the remaining Axis on the verge of losing this war, this would probably be the last conflict he fought in, even if his little brother refused to admit that this wasn't a war they were going to win. Germany was still a young nation – he hadn't learned when it was best to retreat, to surrender and face the consequences of his leader's actions. His last taste of defeat hadn't been enough to jar his brother's head. He hadn't realized that it was not the eighteenth century anymore, and that nations weren't constantly at war anymore, that nations didn't _want _to be at war anymore. He wondered if Germany even realized how big of a mess he had gotten himself into, with three quarters of the world working together to resist his cause.

And even so, Italy had come to his senses, had realized that victory was not going to come in their favour. He and Romano had surrendered with all the dignity they could muster. Prussia had hoped, vainly perhaps, that Germany would under their reasoning and follow in their footsteps, or perhaps that Italy would be able to say something that would sink in his brother's mind, that would convince Germany to take a different path, one other than further destruction.

But his little brother was stubborn. He always had been; Prussia had raised him to be that way, after all. Germany, Japan and their remaining comrades had persisted, and that was how Prussia had ended up here, following the _orders _– him, following orders from his _little _brother, the nation he had raised from the ground; he never thought he would see the day – that Germany had given him.

However, where perhaps Prussia should have felt fear – he was way too fucking awesome to die; he had come back from worse than this; he was too powerful to just _disappear_ – his virtues stood stronger. Stay. Obey. Be brave. Strive to be better. Higher. Go further. Be swifter than a greyhound and stronger than steel. Defend his land at all costs, as was his duty – his blood-bound duty as a nation, who, as one of the soldiers he had arrived with had commented snidely, was no more human than the metal tags that hung from his neck.

(He hadn't killed that soldier – but God knew that he had wanted to. Austria's soldiers were no better than the nation they were fighting for.)

And, unlike the other soldiers, Prussia knew he had a choice. He could drag himself across the battlefield and back to the nearest Axis base, and not one of the humans stationed there would question his return. He could resign himself as a coward, leave, find the nearest bunker, and hide in the ground for the remainder of the war. He could even call his brother back from Yugoslavia, if he so pleased. Germany would immediately return on his request if he thought Prussia was in any sort of trouble, whether or not he was needed there, momentarily putting aside his obligations to the war to attend to his brother.

Through his rifle scope, Prussia's vision was blurred with the rain. The wet details of the street opposite him stood out. Over the canal, where an abandoned motorcar sat by what had once been the front door of a home – a door that had become nothing more than debris and splintered wood in the gaping, jagged mouth of the destroyed house. His sharp eyes caught shards of fine bone china shattered in the foyer of the former home and a small wooden stool with one missing leg, tipped over on its side, displaying its carved decorations of Goldilocks and the three bears.

He marvelled that he could see everything through the rain, even with vision like his own. It was how he had spotted the canary, damp, darkened yellow feathers poking out between the bars, its feet curled loosely in death. He could see the little individual points of its nails, the scaly skin of its legs and tiny feathered chest. He could spy the little grains of food still in its bowl. He could see every little insignificant detail through the scope mounted on his gun.

Across the street, the canary's small, lifeless head caught in the cross hairs of the scope – very similarly to the heads of so many different humans who he had seen, if only briefly, in the same amount of clarity before he had pulled the trigger, ending their life before the sound of the bullet being shot hit their ears. Occasionally, if the human happened to notice him before Prussia could complete his shot, he would see the briefest moment of fear flash through their eyes before acceptance and resignation settled in, and their lifeless body fell to the cold, hard ground.

At least their death was quick. It was the least he could do for his enemies. Most times, they never knew they were about to die, were blissfully unaware that their life was about to be swept out from under their feet. It wasn't the same with those ones who were caught by a stray grenade and lost their legs. Or ones who fate didn't treat as kindly, who were unlucky enough to get hit in the gut with a trench gun shell, their stomachs torn open, bloody intestines in their hands – the humans who screamed and screamed and screamed in vain for the medic, who would just run by without a second glance, who already knew they didn't have a hope of being saved.

Indeed, death by sniper was so much kinder for the human soldiers below. He tried to be merciful, for the little it was worth. They were only humans, after all, and though they were many in number and expendable, he had to respect those who chose to enter a war they weren't required to, to risk their lives by entering a war for the sake of protecting others' lives. He even wasted his bullets on executing those who were dying in agony. He had seen the man with the hands clutched desperately over his stomach, unable to stop the bleeding, the agony etched on his face. He had seen the wedding ring on a blood-slicked finger. He had seen the man's eyes, pleading and afraid, desperate and utterly terrified of what he knew was inevitable. And Prussia had shot him dead.

It was his job to kill, to fight for his people, and for his nation. That was the reason he had been sent here in the first place – there had been a battle.

It had been a three day battle that had started on the outskirts of town, in the fields and foxholes amongst the blotted bodies of slaughtered, bloody cattle. There had been smoke billowing above the distant, dark treeline, far away over mud-churned fields, mixing ash and rain, pouring over the battlefield in a messy mix. Gasoline fires, too strong to be put out by rain alone, had licked and swallowed the old wooden barn on the property, spreading to the stone and the naked feet of lifeless soldiers, their boots stripped away as something too valuable to spare a dead man. The ear-shattering crack of machine guns, the guttering rumble of tanks, and the piercing shouts and death cries had filled the air, blending into a field of volatile sounds that was hardly melodic on the ears. Explosions and chunks of mud and dirt had blasted out from the earth to rain down on helmeted heads.

In the battle, it had been the Americans leading the front lines, followed by British and Canadian troops – though as far as he knew, none of the personified nations had followed along with their soldiers, staying back at their base barely beyond the battlefield. Prussia himself had hidden in the weeds, one that were taller than his head, rifle braced against the stone, finger resting on the trigger. From there, he had picked off the soldiers exposed on the road.

Once the fighting had moved into town and breached the church, Prussia had ran out of bullets, his rifle a useless hunk of metal as a grenade exploded in the dirt close enough to knock him flat on his back, but otherwise, had left him mostly uninjured. The air had rushed from his lungs as he had landed on the hard ground, the sounds of war and death around him turning to a numb, ringing silence, chunks of earth raining down on his body in pieces.

Kriegszitterer. Or, shell shocked, as it was called in English. His head had been dazed and empty, a high, hollow ringing in his ears, echoing through his head. The blinking of his own eyes and shallow breathing had seemed almost robotic in nature, and he had been unaware of his own body moving. It never changed, that feeling, and it always managed to affect him in the same way. Even after hundreds – no, _thousands _– of years of war, he could never quite get used to the feeling.

A fellow soldier's hand had snagged his arm, hauling him to his feet. Still half-dazed, Prussia had sprinted with the soldier under the rain of bullets in and out of citizens' decimated homes, boots slapping on the cobblestone streets, a steady, repetitive sound that gave Prussia enough of an anchor to focus on. By the time they had regrouped with a few other soldiers by a destroyed fountain, ahead of the enemy, and had dispersed along the canal, Prussia had managed to regain his coherency.

He had taken command of the soldier who had dragged him away, pulling the human into a basement, sharing the space with a hoard of rats and two other men. Prussia hadn't recognized any of the faces in the group, and he hadn't bothered to ask for their names. It was better that way. It was easier to think that they were inevitably going to die – in this battle or otherwise – if they didn't have a name and a story attached to the face.

It hadn't been long before a fifth man had joined their little party, informing Prussia and the other human soldiers that they were going to put their back up plan, the one that Prussia had suggested to the leading general before the battle itself had begun, into action. His plan, in simple terms, was to place small groups of men in strategic locations and the cut off the enemy soldiers from one another. It was a simple plan, but one that was proven to work.

Why that hadn't used his plan originally instead of using it as Plan B, which could have possibly saved the lives of several of their soldiers, Prussia could hazard a guess. The human general, of course, had thought that he had known better than the nation who had been at war since the day he had woken, who had gone through more battles than there were soldiers in the entire German army, and who knew every strategic formation there was to know – not to mention had invented several of them. But, he had dismissed the thoughts, deciding not to dwell on them too much. It didn't matter that he didn't have as much authority with his own people as he'd had in the past. It didn't matter that human soldiers thought him equal to them, that they were unable to recognize the power he held anymore, that they no longer able to sense that there was a being higher than themselves among them. The general hadn't known any better, he supposed. He had been too prideful to accept the advice of another. It didn't matter all that much.

What did matter, however, was that his plan had worked, to a certain degree.

Prussia had borrowed more bullets from a fellow sniper he had found crushed beneath collapsed ceiling beams, and he, along with the rest of the remaining soldiers, had attacked in the wee hours of the morning, while the light had still bled in watery blues and oranges and pinks, and the breath of the soldiers had misted like smoke before their faces.

He had climbed into the loft of a quaint little building and crouched between the stacks of empty crates there, the nose of his rifle resting on the frame of a broken window and his view of the entire street uninterrupted. It had been an excellent place to snipe. In the dark, he hadn't quite been able to see the details of the men he shot dead, but at least he wasn't faced with the task of adding their faces to his mental list.

The battle had waged on for hours, long enough that by the time the sun had begun to set behind the clouds, Prussia's body had ached with fatigue, channeling all of his soldiers' emotions along with his own, and the exhaustion he had felt had brought him to a new low. His knees and elbows had long ago gone numb, his head had been pounding, and his eyes had throbbed painfully. The sounds of war had been so loud in his ears that, even with hearing as excellent as his, he hadn't picked up the beat of boots on the wooden stairs leading into the loft until it was too late.

Three men had entered the loft, at least one of them an Allied nation, but Prussia hadn't been able to see which one it was in the rapidly dying light of the sun, shadows dancing across the faces of the intruders, blocking them from recognition. One of the men had already been wounded, the second one had been one that Prussia had already shot, and the last one was the one who had knifed him in the stomach – who, quite obviously, had to be the nation if the wound hurt so _goddamn _much.

A short, sharp blade had sliced through the jacket of his uniform and into the skin above his hip. In an instinctive reaction, he had smacked the nation across the face with his pistol, sending him stumbling back down the loft stairs before he had been able to take a good look at his attacker's face. The two humans that had accompanied the nation went running after him, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared in the first place, leaving Prussia alone in the loft once again.

There had been blood soaking through his uniform, wet and sticky and warm, but after the initial puncture, he hadn't been able to really feel the pain. There had been too much adrenaline kicking through his body, too much air rushing in and out of his lungs far too quickly, and too many thoughts racing through his head before his mind settled on one exclusively: He needed to _leave. _He needed to find a new place to stop and snipe. By the time he had gotten down the stairs and out of the decimated home, the nation and his two lackeys were nowhere to be seen, and he didn't see the sense in trying to track them down. Prussia didn't even bother trying to find a medic to help patch his wound. All he had known was that he needed to _move _– anywhere. He needed to do anything else but stay still and let the world and the pain catch up with his head.

And that was how he had wound up with his eye and mind fixed on a dead bird, a full day later and the messily patched wound in his side still bleeding, a slow but steady stream. The puddle beneath him, made up of blood and water, was much like a blooming rose. His life leaked away from numbed bones and a mind that, in his delirium, couldn't quite find the feelings to care.

Somewhere, streets away, a sudden stutter of distant machine gun fire broke the tentative silence, sending a cold jolt up Prussia's spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. There were still soldiers here, still fighting, he realized. Who had won or who had lost, he had a pretty good idea, but he had already come to the conclusion that most of the soldiers he had arrived with were nothing more than dead corpses at this point. These weren't the old days anymore – his glory days, he thought wistfully – where he and his army had been able to come out on top of any battle, grossly outnumbered or not, and his biggest concern had been if he felt like starting another war with Austria, and how he was going to fuck up his – least – favourite neighbour's shit that day.

With nothing else to do and no more energy to spare, Prussia kept his gaze locked on the canary cage, shifting gently back and forth in the scope as the wind swayed its small prison. The slow, soft swing reminded him of the set of wooden sailboats he had brought back from England when his little brother was still no higher than his knees, and how delighted Germany had been to receive them, swimming in and out of his vision as his eyes slowly lost their focus. The cage dipped into darkness, then to grey, rain-soaked light. In and out, up and down. Oh, the amount he would give to go back to those simpler times, where his little brother had been decidedly more innocent, and not starting conflicts that rocked the entire world over.

At first, Prussia didn't notice that the cage had stopped swinging. It didn't quite register when he saw a pair of hands unlock the cage door and reach inside, not until there were fingers wrapping around the canary's tiny body and lifting it up and away, out of its cage. The canary's wings folded gently to its side under a man's gentle thumbs.

The Germanic nation started slightly, blinking as he realized it was only another person. It was someone living – a soldier, most likely. Possibly the enemy, but he couldn't tell at such close range.

His fingers fumbled to adjust his scope, reducing the zoom until the entire window swam into focus. He could see, sharp and crystal clear, a Canadian soldier – judging by the darker, greener uniform, he figured it couldn't have been an American or British soldier – stood half shadowed in the eves of the house, his large hands coated in dried mud. The human's hands, so gentle and so careful, cupped the little bird as a child might have, saying goodbye to its precious pet. The soldier stroked the bird's dark wings before he leaned forward and out the window.

It took Prussia a second to have the cross hairs fixed perfectly on the soldier's head. It was his job, after all, to kill his enemies. He was a sniper in this battle – the one who killed in the shadows, concealed from sight, from a distance. It wasn't what he was used to, or what he preferred, but he had to follow the orders Germany had given him. His finger itched to put more pressure on the trigger, to blow this human's head away, to add another stroke on the number of lives he had swept away.

But, he found himself hesitating. The man looked up from the bird in his cupped hands, looked up at just the right moment, just as Prussia paused, and saw. He saw the barrel of a gun in the window opposite. He saw the frail light gleam off of black metal. He saw Prussia's body amongst the crates, and froze to the spot.

It's what most tended to do, nation or human, a king or a mere peasant, like any other animal in the immediate eye of its killer. Through the scope, he found the Canadian soldier looking right back at him, expression split somewhere between acceptance, defiance, and anger. He could see every detail on the man's face.

And then he realized.

This Canadian soldier wasn't just any human – this was _Canada_, the nation himself.

Three days' worth of shadowed, barely-there stubble marked the bottom of Canada's jaw. His wavy blond hair was darkened with mud, plastered to his cheeks and hanging limply below his chin, almost as dark as the smudges of earth across his face. Around the collar of his green uniform, Prussia could see the stains of brown, dried blood – blood that had probably come from his comrades and enemy soldiers alike. There was a crease of tension between Canada's eyebrows, where his one stray curl twisted down from his nose and lay limp on his cheek.

And his eyes. Such blue, blue eyes – so blue, in fact, that in just the right light and the right angle, Prussia thought he could spy small traces of a deeper violet. But now, with the absence of natural light, Canada's eyes were a straight blue, darker than either America or France's. Those eyes were blue and hardened, fierce with a layer of fear hiding beneath, blue and intelligent, blue and living, bright with life instead of sightless death.

Prussia's throat was dry. His pain returned in deep, aching throbs that started in his stomach and finished in the tips of his fingers and toes.

Looking back at Canada, back into those eyes where dull acceptance had already begun to settle, still frozen and waiting, he knew they were teetering on some kind of edge. Whether Canada recognized him or not, Prussia didn't know, nor could he say he really cared, but either way, he had possibly thousands upon thousands of soldiers' lives in his hand, in the single digit resting on the trigger.

He knew he wouldn't have a chance at injuring Canada to any mortal means. His country was in no state of ruin; he wouldn't be able to bring the snowy nation to the edge of death. The nation was, in fact, doing exceptionally well during the war, compared to the other Allies. But Prussia could, at the very least, injure the kid if nothing else. It would bring the Canadian soldiers' morale down, as well as make them weaker and more susceptible of injury and illness, even if they didn't know why. Injuring Canada meant injuring his entire army, and at this point, the Axis could use the advantage in more ways than one.

But something inexplicable was holding him back, stopping him from pulling the trigger.

Their tense moment broke when Prussia shoved the gun aside and simply looked at Canada through the window, through the blurring rain, across the street. They stared at each other, gazes locking, a silent but mutual ceasefire passing between them before Canada went to move once more.

He lifted one knee to the windowsill and leaned out into the pouring rain. He looked down for a moment at the pathetic little body in his hands, as if he was giving the bird its final farewell, his face hidden in the shadows cast beneath the brim of his helmet. Then, he stretched his arms out and flung the tiny canary into the air.

The canary arched and seemed to suspend for a moment, wings half spread as if they still had the life for one final flight, before it spun downwards into the canal, swallowed up by the muddy water and debris around it, accompanied by a splash too small to hear.

That was better, Prussia thought, than rotting in a cage.

The rifle was still digging into his shoulder, but he didn't bother to move it. There was barely enough strength in him to reach down and gingerly run his fingers over the wound he had obtained earlier, still open and leaking blood. It hurt. It hurt so much, more than anything he had ever felt before.

His gut was burning, like the blade was still embedded in his skin, though he had eased it out long ago. His bones were weary, eyes weighed down, bags beginning to form beneath them, heavy with fatigue. The rain falling on his thin lips did nothing to ease the terrible thirst he felt.

Releasing a sigh that made his chest ache, Prussia closed his eyes and pushed all the remaining traces of fear from his mind. He refused to be afraid of what was inevitable – of something he had been aware of for quite some time. This came to no surprise for him. Though, this wasn't exactly where he wanted to be – in a crumbling house with ruined furniture and even more ruined lives around him. He didn't want to lie in a peaceless, dangerous place while his body burned from the inside out.

However, with his eyes shut on the world, at least his mind could drift as it pleased.

He trudged through the thoughts of pain, the thirst and the horror and the nightmares of all he had seen to settle in a well of the deepest blue imaginable. It was a blue like the sky he hadn't seen in well over a month. It was blue like freedom. It was blue like liberty. It was blue like peace.

Blue like the eyes of the nation he had spared.

Blue like salvation.

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**A/N **;; Hey guys, you just finished reading the second edited version of chapter one. I hope you guys enjoyed it. I'll be updated the second versions of the edited chapters as I finish them.

A couple notes:

**(1)** This battle is not based on a historic one. At the time of writing the original version of this chapter, I had been on vacation – with no internet, unfortunately – and despite that I had brought quite a few history books with me, none of them really provided me with the information I needed to write a proper historic battle. Sorry about that!

**(2)** Neither Canada nor Prussia are wearing the military uniforms that they wear in the anime/webcomic. This is, again, partly because I did not have internet during the writing of this. I had the references for German and Canadian WWII uniforms already saved on my laptop, but I couldn't exactly remember the designs of both Prussia and Canada's official uniforms. So, in order to not look like an idiot when describing what they (er, or maybe just Canada) were wearing, I decided to go with the references I already had. It made sense at the time, and I don't feel like changing it now.

**(3)** Italy is mentioned to have already surrendered in this chapter, and Germany is mentioned to be in Yugoslavia. The facts behind that go as follows: Italy as a country officially surrendered to the Allied nations in September of 1943. The south was free of Germans, while the North was still being occupied even after the surrender. Despite that, in this story, Italy and Romano are no longer with the remaining Axis nations. As for Germany… German, Italian, and Hungarian troops attacked and took control of the former country of Yugoslavia in 1941, splitting it up into multiple states. The Axis troops occupied the country until the end of war, so I figured if Germany would be anywhere, it might be there.

**(4)** **This one is important. **Some of you might notice that, hey, the Allied nations that occupied Germany didn't decide they wanted to abolish Prussia until 1947, when Prussia's last Prime Minister requested that they reinstate Prussia's legal government. _Well_, I'm changing that little part. In this story, the majority of what will be the future Allied Council Control (France, America, and England) already have it in mind that they want Prussia off the map. For reference, I say 'majority' because Russia (the fourth and final member of the Allied Council Control) did not vote for Prussia's abolition.

Stay awesome, guys.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N **;; Welcome to the second revised version of chapter two, readers! I did a lot of extending this time around (over 2000 words, thanks for asking). As a warning for future chapters, as you might be able to gather from this, there will be a lot of introspection for both our main characters. I really wanted to explore Canada and Prussia's dynamics in this story, to really get inside their heads, and introspection is one of my favourite things to write. I am constantly evaluating my own actions and my experiences and memories, so it sometimes bleeds into the characters I'm writing. I really think that introspection writing fits all characters of Hetalia, especially considering the huge amount of history that goes along with each character, so I like to use it more than some authors might.

Enjoy this revision.

Historical notes, references and translations are at the bottom of the chapter.

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**The Spoils of War  
Chapter Two**

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* * *

It was only by pure chance that Canada saw the sniper. The pale afternoon sun, breaking through the smoke and thick clouds in the sky, was at just an angle that the light hit the rifle scope – a tiny diamond gleam that caught the corner of his eye and made him look up from the frail yellow corpse in his cupped palms.

He saw there, hidden amongst the rubble and the bricks and the furniture, the German, flat on his stomach, with his rifle situated on its tripod. He saw the dome of his khaki helmet, and his pale, slender finger on the trigger. He felt the German's eyes watching his every movement, every breath he took, watching as his thoughts, clear as day, tumbled through his mind at speeds faster than he could comprehend. He saw – and he _knew _– that his head was somewhere in the cross hairs. Somewhere, in that solitary gleaming metal eye, the German had him pinned like an insect on a board and in a moment, he would be shot. He wouldn't have time for another thought, another breath, or another heartbeat.

And he froze.

That was one of the things Canada hated about himself. America would move. England would move. Russia and China would be able to duck out of the way. Hell, any of them would be quick enough to get both themselves and _him _out of the cross hairs before the sniper had a chance to pull the trigger. But he couldn't do it, couldn't bring himself to budge from his spot, staring and waiting for that split second that would force him to the ground. No, he couldn't move. Not him – not little Canada. He froze, the way livestock did in the headlights of supply trucks on muddy French roads.

And yet, he couldn't understand _why. _He had killed before, destroyed thousands upon thousands of human lives, all for the sake of peace and freedom. He had plotted and spied, managing to get in and out of German camp unscathed, bringing back vital battle plans and strategies. He and the rest of the Allies had won battle after battle after battle. He had been dragged into England's conflicts before, whether he wanted to fight or not, had tried to step between England and his little brother, had fought against America to preserve his freedom, objecting against his brother's twisted idea of a marriage, and had lost thousands of his people to wars they wanted no part in. He had entered this very war, pathetically unequipped, despite his country's attempt at isolation, without being asked, to help protect the ones he cared about. He had seen more war, more casualties, and more horror than any other human. And despite that, in the eye of a sniper rifle, he was frozen to the spot, staring at his would-be killer in the face, as if he were a mere human.

He knew the shot wouldn't hurt him, much less kill him – unless there happened to be one of the Axis nations hiding up there, amongst the boxes. That was another story altogether. Another nation hiding there would be dangerous – for him and the rest of his soldiers.

However, he couldn't feel the pull that drew nations together on the battlefield. He had seen, and been forcibly pulled towards, many nations, come face to face with them, visage coated in mud and the blood of their soldiers and his alike soaking through his uniform. Austria's music took on a more sombre tune when his and the other Allied troops arrived. Hungary tended to take second glances at him when they met. Germany _flinched _in his presence.

They _recognized _him.

Canada was strong – himself and the nation he represented. His troops were strong and morale was high. His economy was doing brilliantly. He was beginning to make a name for himself, finally, after so many decades of being overshadowed by France and England and his _younger _brother. He was emerging as _Canada_, a force not to be reckoned with, nor to be taken lightly, and not just the neighbour of America, not just as a former colony of the British Empire.

England and France were _proud _of him – for the first time since his name had been read off in the Statue of Westminster, England had managed to _remember _his name without a reminder, to not pause before congratulating him on victory with a smile and a hearty slap on the shoulder. America bragged about the 'North American power duo,' as he had so heroically named them, with Canada as his loyal sidekick, to China and Russia. He often received little, secret smiles from France despite the constant lines of weariness that stuck to his handsome face, ones of thanks and pride as he observed Canada whip the soldiers he was in charge of into shape, directed at him and him only.

They had _respect _for him.

He had gotten what he wanted, finally, after so many years of being overlooked.

Goddammit, why couldn't he _move_?

One of America's soldiers, while he and Canada had been crouched behind piles of sandbags and drawing in the dirt with their fingers, had told him that a bullet travelled faster than the speed of sound. He had been a scientist before the war and had proceeded to give Canada a long, winded, complicated math equation about time and distance, drawing his explanations in the ground, but ultimately had meant that a man would be dead before he heard the gunshot – before he had time to move one last muscle, or blink one last time, or even think one last thought.

Canada almost closed his eyes against the sight. Being unable to see the gun wouldn't make it any better, but he still found that that was all he was able to bring himself to do. He was unable to flinch or flicker, and he would be forced to stare down a bullet in his heart or in his throat. He was only waiting for whatever could come next.

Waiting as the moment seemed to stretch. And stretch. And stretch.

But never came.

The German moved his gun. He pushed it aside and let his hand fall limply to the flooring beneath him, chin resting on his forearm and fatigue written in every line of his body. He surrendered, and Canada was left blinking and confused.

From the distance between them, between the canal and the cobbled streets, Canada could not see the German's face beneath the shadow of his helmet, but he understood the action well enough. He saw mercy for what it was and felt not relief, but a sort of gratitude. It was war, after all – where man killed man if he wore the wrong uniform, if he spoke the wrong language, or if he believed in the wrong thing. And yet, the gun had been pushed aside and the German was merely staring at him, watching him, still and quiet.

He felt rather stupid, suddenly. In a windowsill holding a dead bird… he must look absolutely ridiculous. He had seen the hanging cage from the street and had risked his neck in a falling down, burnt out husk of a house to take an animal's stiff corpse and throw it into the canal, as a sign of respect. He hadn't thought about the possibility that a few remaining enemies would lurk like rouge wolves amongst the ruins. He had, in those precious few moments, forgotten that he was in a war, feeling as though he had to give a farewell to the bird, give it one final flight, despite that its heart had long ago ceased to beat in its chest. It had seemed like a good idea, at the time.

The German never took his eyes off him, watching him, completely silent and unmoving. In compliance to unspoken demands, Canada leaned out of the windowsill and tossed the tiny bird into the air. Up, up and then down, to where the fish could nibble clean its fragile little bones in the darkness of the water below. He could see it, for a moment or two, a dull splash of colour being swept swiftly downstream before it vanished from his sight completely.

He took in a breath of cold, wet air, noticing for the first time the light sheet of rain falling against his skin. The clouds overhead had thinned and cracked, bleeding through with just the slightest bit of sunlight. There was still no glimpse of blue sky, however, and he hadn't seen it in weeks. All he'd had the pleasure of experiences were cold, wet days and colder, wetter nights. The ground had long ago turned from grassy, flowered fields to churned mud, ruined under the boots of soldiers. There was nothing bright left in this little town.

Canada missed the sky.

He missed his own land.

When he looked back across the canal, he thought, for whatever reason, that the German would still be looking back at him. It surprised Canada to see that he had his face turned towards the floor, the gun shoved to one side with his head buried in his arm. He was so still, so motionless, that Canada knew he was unconscious. It hadn't occurred to him before, but perhaps the German was injured; maybe he was slowly dying, bleeding out, and that was why he hadn't moved from that spot. Maybe that was why he hadn't pulled the trigger, some final act of mercy, for his own soul, or simply to spare a life where one didn't need to be taken.

Maybe it wasn't even as complicated as that, Canada didn't know.

Most of the German soldiers had already retreated from the town, leaving only the few straggling wounded, like the sniper. Injured, but not enough to give them mercy and kill them quickly. Instead, they were left behind to bleed to death in holes like sick dogs, or forcing them to die in a blaze of suicidal gunfire, hackles raised and spitting as they threw themselves on the enemy, all hope lost but righteous anger burning in their blood, paired with fear and pain and desperation – the ruined shadows of men made animal by the horrors they saw.

For a long, still moment, he watched the German across the street, listening to the silence only now interrupted by the gentle splatter of raindrops of the ruined things around him. The streets must have been beautiful, once upon a time, before wreckage and destruction had descended like a vulture on the rooftops. And looking down at them, at the burnt rubble and shells of former buildings, Canada could only feel guilt and distress. He felt a grief for the little bird that had died in its cage, for the people whose lives were left in ruin, for the German who had spared him when others wouldn't have bothered to.

With a shake of his head, Canada turned away from the window and picked a path across burnt timber flooring to the stairs. They too had been ruined by the fire, the balustrade nothing but jagged, blackened numbs and each step threatening to give way beneath his feet with long, high squeals. How anticlimactic would that be? Spared from being shot only to be trapped because a house fell down around his head…

Surely, the building would collapse on itself any minute. That was inevitable, and he needed to leave before he gave America something to laugh about later. The entire left side of the building was gone. There was no front door to open – just a gaping hole to walk through. Once he was on the street once more, Canada looked up to where the German lay. He was only able to see the top of his helmet and his fingers where they hung, pale and dripping, over the edge of the floor.

Down the street a little ways, some of the soldiers he had led into town had lay a thick wooden board across the canal for other troops to cross. It was really about time he made his way back to camp, as they were regrouping outside of town, last he heard. The supply trucks had arrived earlier that morning, with tents and food and ammunition. He had gone out of his way enough. They would probably be doing a roll call soon, making a tally of the dead or missing. He would need to be there, needed to go back, but…

The least he could do was make the German more comfortable while he died. Maybe he could pull him out of the rain, or keep him company for a while. America would cover for his absence, if they even remembered he wasn't there in the first place.

Like the canary in its cage, Canada found himself unable to ignore the soldier. He crossed the bridge with his head ducked down, clambering over piles of broken bricks and wood to get into the building, risking life and limb yet again on another flight of ruined stairs.

The German's pack came into view first, dumped to one side. Then the muddy soles of his boots beside a tipped dresser. His uniform was as damp and as dirty as every other soldier's, stained with mud, blood and clumps of clay. But what concerned Canada the most, what made his gut clench with both revulsion and pity, was the blood soaking through the carpet the German lay on.

It wasn't a ton of blood – not enough to be killing him quickly – but it was there regardless, watered down by the rain and seeping from beneath the German in a slowly growing circle.

By the German's feet, Canada hesitated. He could see how close at hand the human's rifle was. He really didn't want to surprise the German and wind up getting shot regardless.

"Um… Guten Tag," he said, the words stilted and awkward coming from his mouth as he stepped quietly over the German's legs, leaning down slightly. "I won't hurt you, okay? Just… please... don't shoot me."

He received no reaction, even as he knelt down and shook the German's shoulders gently. There was no sign of a response from him, and for a hollow moment, Canada thought that he had come too late and that the man might already be dead.

However, refusing to leave until he was absolutely sure, Canada shifted down into a crouch, getting an arm under the soldier's chest, a dead weight that took quite an effort to roll over. Canada pulled the German into a half-seated position, resting him against his chest, and, for the first time, was able to see his face clearly.

Canada felt his eyes widen, and he forced himself not to jump back, letting out a deep breath as he willed his heart to stop beating so quickly.

The German's – no, the _Prussian's_, he realized – skin was ashen under the smudges of dirt on his face, deep shadows under his eyes and high cheekbones. His hair was pale white, darkened with dirt at the ends, but white regardless. And if Prussia were awake, he knew he would have seen blood red eyes and the trademark cocky smirk that almost constantly adorned the former empire's face. He wondered, vaguely, if Prussia were conscious whether or not he would see that flash of recognition, if Prussia would remember who he was, and whether or not he had left as big as an impression on Prussia as he had on Germany during the last war.

Canada held Prussia's helmet cautiously, careful not to make any sudden movements that could possibly wake the man and get him shot, scarcely even breathing. He was shocked to stillness as he looked down at Prussia's unconscious face. He had seen horrors, he had seen atrocities, but this sight still managed to take his breath away. Even unconscious, Prussia didn't look peaceful.

Swallowing back the sudden lump in his chest, Canada turned his eyes down to the Prussian's body, where his uniform was ripped and bloodstained. There was a knife wound, rather than a gunshot entry wound, where Prussia's coat was undone. Someone had tried to patch it and had done an incredibly poor job, it seemed.

Prussia's head lolled against his shoulder until Canada moved his face away, noticing that the Germanic nation's skin was burning with a fever beneath his fingers. He watched the Prussian's eyes flicker, his mouth curving downwards into a discomforted frown. Canada didn't know what to do. Now that he was here, had seen Prussia's condition, could he leave him alone again? Could he really leave and let another one of the Axis or – God forbid – the _Allies _see him here, in such a weak state?

He shifted his grip around the Prussian's chest and saw his eyes flicker once more, saw his throat move as he swallowed painfully, and the effort it took for him to open his eyes – dazed and confused, but deep red beneath pale lashes. "Hey, hey… It's okay, Prussia," Canada muttered, whispering as though raising his voice too loud would draw unwanted attention towards them. He ran his fingers through Prussia's matted hair, easing out some of the knots, hoping that the action would bring only the slightest bit of comfort to the unpredictable Prussia, to perhaps stop him from lashing out against him. France had done this very same thing to him when he was still a small colony, to calm him when he was frightened, and if he had any luck, it would do the same to his elder nation. "You're okay."

Canada felt his breath catch in his throat as weak fingers gripped the trousers of his uniform, but felt the sudden tension that had gripped his body begin to relax as, instead of preparing himself for an assault, Prussia only let out a slow, ragged breath, a single, raspy word coming from his mouth: "Wasser…" His voice came out dry and hushed, scratchy from disuse, but Canada understood it well enough. He comprehended very little German, only the very basics of grammar, and he spoke the language as well as a small child could, but he at least knew what 'wasser' meant.

"Okay," Canada nodded. "Wasser." Shifting, he unclipped a flask from his belt. The metal was cold and wet, the condensation on the flask making the cap slippery beneath his fingers as he held the bottle up to Prussia's lips and tipped slowly. He had done this before, for dying comrades, and had naturally expected Prussia to choke or couch or splutter. Instead, the Germanic nation managed to get one hand beneath the bottle and almost hold it up for himself. It was not because he was in a better condition than Canada had assumed, but because he was determined to do so.

Canada stared down at Prussia's face as his blood red eyes rose to meet the Canadian's as he drank, and the younger nation could barely withhold a sigh as his roving gaze picking out a long, white scar hidden beneath the fringe of Prussia's hair, marking his otherwise nearly flawless face. Without thinking, he raised his hand and traced one long finger over it, not noticing the way Prussia stiffened against him. Being such an old nation, there must be hundreds upon hundreds of scars on Prussia's body, ones caused by betrayals, unions, treaties…

He could remember the stories England used to recount to him and America before bedtime, during a time when he and his brother had barely reached England's knees, and when he and America had still shared a bed with him and his little brother had clung to him during the night. He remembered England telling him, when he wasn't retelling tales of France's brutal defeats, that through all the centuries, through all their alliances, he had never seen Prussia weak enough to require help and, when offered it, the Germanic nation would spit in the face of whoever had been kind enough to extend their hand to him.

"'_I'm too awesome for assistance, Artie,' he would say, that bloody moron._" England had always spoken in such an exaggerated, screechy tone of voice as he narrated Prussia's words back to America and Canada, making the younger brother laugh and Canada wonder about the mystery nation he had seen so few times. Even then, he had thought that perhaps England was one of the nations Prussia had scorned, judging from the way his former caretaker would go from speaking in a rather fond tone to scowling in a moment, but perhaps that was just part of his storytelling.

And then, to see Prussia in this state…

Prussia swallowed a few mouthfuls of water, a thin trickle escaping around the brim to run down his chin before he pushed the bottle away, his breathing still ragged and unsteady. "Sie sind… Kanada…" he muttered. "Warum sind Sie hier?"

Why _was_ he here? That was a good question – one that had Canada's mind reeling, shrugging helplessly as he shoved the question to the back of his mind to think about at a later time. Prussia sighed irritably at his lack of an answer. He was still all but a dead weight against Canada's chest, but he moved one hand to rest over the wound in his side, his eyes locking onto Canada's, focusing, narrowing in concentration or perhaps thought.

"Warum sind Sie hier?" he repeated, a bit more forcefully, attempting to push himself up into a more independent position, though the words trailed off into a mumbled whisper towards the end of the question. He let out a soft breath as his teeth grit together, his face creasing in pain. His fingers clenched weakly in the folds of Canada's uniform, pushing him away. "Gehe. Lass mich alleine."

Canada frowned. "No, I will not leave," he said firmly, shaking his head. "I will not leave you alone. Come on, Prussia, I'll get you back to the camp, eh." Already predicting Prussia's scowl, Canada ignored it with expert precision, reaching forward and pulling Prussia closer to him once again before hauling both himself and the Germanic nation off the ground. Prussia was a lot heavier had expected him to be, and they swayed dangerously, the wooden floor beneath their feet groaning as though it was ready to give any moment, or ready for the impact of Canada's face on its surface if he swayed a little too far.

Canada managed to balance them, however, even with a little trouble, hissing at Prussia to stop squirming indignantly, no, I won't let go of you, stop scowling at me, I'm not going to kill you.

Finally, Prussia ceased his struggles, resigning himself to grasp the coat of Canada's uniform, forcing himself to keep his eyes open as Canada manoeuvered them across the loft, each step bringing them closer and closer to the set of rickety old stairs. "The camp isn't far from here," Canada said, mostly to fill the silence and to assure Prussia that he, as such a prideful nation, wouldn't have to rely on the help of a younger, less experienced country for very long. "I'll have the doctor take a look at your wound. He'll help you the best he can. Um… I'll get you… hilfe…"

"…hilfe?" Prussia repeated.

Canada probably should have realized that was the wrong thing to say, but in between his racing thoughts about how long Prussia would be in Allied territory, how he could keep him away from England and America, and how, exactly, he was going to get him there without drawing too much attention, he had momentarily forgotten about Prussia's aversion to help. So, without thinking, he replied, "Ja, hilfe. You have to get help."

Canada had never exactly understood why France and occasionally England had always called Prussia 'unpredictable.' During the few times he had seen Prussia while he was a colony, even during less than peaceful times, he had seemed a little odd, but hardly unpredictable. In battle, Canada had found that he was calculating, tended to plan ahead, but was willing to abruptly change his tactics if he found his current one wasn't working as well as he had hoped. Still, he had never been caught completely off-guard, though fighting against the elder nation had certainly been a challenge. From America, he had heard of Prussia's training tactics – hard and merciless, but effective – and his tendencies to switch between moderately kind and practically heartless, so much so that his little brother had described it like working with three different people – the two sides Prussia switched between while training, and the laidback, relaxed stance he assumed when he was at ease and drinking.

No, the elder North American brother had never quite understood why Prussia had been called 'unpredictable' until now.

One moment, Prussia was working relatively well with him, and the next he was screaming and lashing out. In one quick, fluent movement, he hooked his leg behind Canada's and kicked out, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Prussia landed on his knees, letting out a low hiss of pain. "Ich brauche niemanden, der mir sagt, was ich zu tun habe!" he yelled, immediately reaching towards his gun with unsteady hands, grasping it and turning it towards Canada, shoulders shaking violently. "Ich brauche niemanden!"

Canada was just pushing himself up as he found the barrel of a gun in his face. His eyes widened as his body tensed up. "Prussia…" he muttered slowly, softly, trying to keep the panic rising in his mind out of his voice. The last thing he wanted Prussia to know was that he was scared; somehow, someway, the Germanic nation would be able to use that to his advantage. And all the while, his brain was scrambling to remember all the self-defence tactics China had taught him. One solid punch to the jaw should be enough to knock him out cold for a while; he would be able to bring Prussia back to the camp after that with minimal trouble. "Prussia…" he trailed off. He considered simply launching himself at Prussia, but it would leave himself in a vulnerable spot to be shot. He didn't doubt that Prussia wouldn't hesitate when pulling the trigger.

However, Canada, ever the peacemaker, pushed the thought from his mind. He would need to try to convince Prussia to accept his assistance before resorting to force. "Prussia," he began, raising his hands in a surrendering gesture. "I want to help you." The reason why was still unclear in his mind, but all he knew was that he couldn't stand to leave Prussia where he was. "I know I can't do very much," he continued, "but I can at least make the pain better. Then you can go back to Germany. No one will stop you. America and England won't hurt you – I won't let them. I promise, eh."

"Ich… Ich… I don't…" Canada's next words died in his throat, his ears perking as he heard Prussia speak. It was the first time he had heard anything else besides German out of his mouth since he had found him, and he listened carefully as Prussia's mouth opened once again. "I don't need your help," he insisted, his words slow and obviously thought out, judging by the furrow between Prussia's eyebrows, as though he wasn't exactly confident in his ability to speak English. "I don't want it. I'm too awesome to accept anything from one of England's brats." The barrel of the gun didn't move, nor did Prussia expression flicker in the slightest. He was still glaring, red eyes narrowed, dangerous. He flicked the gun east, growling, "Now leave me alone! Gehe!"

Canada's body moved faster than his mind did. He saw his chance, and he took it. He lunged forward, knocking the rifle out of Prussia's hand and the elder nation himself onto his back, eliciting a strangled hiss of pain from his mouth. "Fuck!" he swore, attempting to wrestle Canada off of him, but it was in vain. In this battle, Canada was clearly the stronger nation, and he easily grasped control of Prussia, pinning him to the ground, holding his arms above his head as he hovered over him, his face only mere centimetres away from Prussia's. "So this is the fucking thanks I get for sparing your life!" Prussia snarled, flashing his gritted teeth and all, drops of spit sticking to Canada's cheeks as he continued. "You ungrateful brat! I'll make you regret this!"

"Sorry," Canada apologized. And he meant it. This wasn't exactly how he had expected this encounter to go. He hadn't even expected to _find _Prussia here, never mind attempt to convince him to follow his technical enemy to where more Allied nations waited. Prussia had every reason to believe that the whole encounter was a farce to lure him into enemy territory. He would have to talk to him about that once he woke up. In hindsight, he probably should have realized that it was hardly going to be easy pickings when he was dealing with an angry, stubborn former empire.

"Fuck you! I don't want your apologies!"

"Ah… sorry…" Canada reached to the side to where Prussia's gun had fallen, making sure he had the Germanic nation's arms firmly pinned above his head before bringing the butt of the gun down on Prussia's jaw, thankful that he hadn't heard a crack. The last thing he needed was to injure Prussia even more than he already was. That _definitely _wouldn't earn him any brownie points with the older nation.

Once he was sure that Prussia was indeed unconscious once again, Canada gently patted his pale, too-thin cheek and carefully climbed off of him. He grabbed Prussia's discarded pack and rifle off of the ground, slinging them both over his shoulder with his own before he hauled the unconscious nation up, ducking under his arm to get a proper hold on him. Prussia's head hung limply, the hair that poked below the helmet lying on his cheeks, flat and dirty. His neck was exposed, a crucial point of attack, and Canada found himself almost snorting at the thought of Prussia's reaction to being in such a vulnerable position.

He just hoped that Prussia wouldn't hold too much of a grudge against him for this.

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**A/N **;; I tried to keep the German relatively simple in this chapter. Looking at the context around the phrases, you should be able to figure out what it means, even without me writing it in there for you guys. The only part that doesn't really have any hints to its meaning is the two sentences Prussia says when he lashes out, but those won't be around very often.

**Translations:  
**Guten Tag – Good day  
Wasser – Water  
Sie sind… Kanada – You are… Canada  
Warum sind Sie hier – Why are you here  
Lass mich alleine – Leave me alone  
Gehe – Go  
Hilfe – Help  
Ich brauche niemanden, der mir sagt, was ich zu tun habe – I don't need anyone telling me what I have to do

**Historical notes/references:**

**(1) **The Statute of Westminster 1931 was, in simple terms, Canada's first step towards total independence. What the act gave was legislative equality for the self-governing Dominions of the British Empire. However, the British North America Acts were excluded from the Statute of Westminster, so it took until 1949 until Britain allowed the Canadian Parliament to change _limited _parts of their constitution. Canada's full political independence wouldn't come until 1982, when the Canada Act/Constitution Act (the latter being the Canadian version) was put into place, giving the Canadian Parliament full control over their own Constitution. It's… kind of complicated.

**(2) **During the American Revolutionary War, most of you probably know that a Prussian general by the name of Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben (or, more commonly known as Baron von Steuben) travelled to America to help train the soldiers for war against Britain. He taught the Americans how to use their bayonets ('cause, you know, they didn't know that you can use that pointy thing at the top) and created cleanliness amongst the soldiers. I could write a fucking novel about this guy and how awesome he is, especially considering the amount of his history he has with Fredrick the Great, but I won't. Anyway, why I mentioned this is because I find a certain part of his training rather… interesting. He was known as an eccentric man and a swearer, and he would swear at the American troops in German and French, but obviously, they couldn't understand what he was saying. So, he would often call his translator and say, "Over here! Swear at him for me!" Yeah. _Yeah. _

**(3) **I mentioned in this chapter that at the time Canada entered the war, the country had a major lack of suitable supplies. That is completely true. In fact, Canada was planning on staying neutral throughout the Second World War, but the Prime Minister at the time, Mackenzie King, decided otherwise. During the WW1, Canada had lost 60,000 troops, and the people were sick and tired of war, attempting a sort of isolation from the rest of the world, along with America. That didn't last long. Oh, did I also mention that Quebec announced that if Italy went to war with Britain, their sympathies would be with the Italians? So, Canada was kind of split between supporting their supposed enemies and supporting their allies. I didn't touch upon it in this chapter, but I think it adds something interesting to WWII Canada's character.

See, I'm teaching you guys things. Sorry if these notes are so long, but I've always liked authors that explained some of their references, so that's the kind of things I do. -shrug-

Stay awesome, guys.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N **;; Guys, beware the introspection in this chapter. I had originally wanted to remove it when I edited this chapter, but since it was the first time I had ever written anything like it, I decided that I simply had to keep it, for memories' sake. If you wish to skip it, you honestly won't miss much. In the section, in simple terms, I explain some of Canada's characterization in this story and it holds a bit of my take on the more serious side of Hetalia. If anything, it's almost like a little character study on Canada. Like I said, you ain't missin' much if you decide to skip over it.

**[Edited May 23****rd****, 2013 – fixed some grammar/sentence structure, extended chapter, adjusted headcanon]**

* * *

**The Spoils of War**

**…o…**

**Chapter Three**

**…o…**

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By the time Prussia had woken once again, Canada had already managed to manoeuvre him down the precarious stairs and get him back out on the cobbled street. Canada's eyes shifted towards him as he squirmed, but looked relieved when Prussia didn't try to lash out again. The Germanic nation scowled and that seemed to be the end of his resistance.

Prussia was slow, of course, but steady and Canada was impressed by his sheer force of will. Not once did he cry or complain. He could see the pain that would etch itself on his face with every step he took, every time the wound at his side got pulled or stretched, but not once did a noise come out from his mouth. Not a single sniffle. As much as he stumbled, he didn't fall and he didn't stop. There were other nations who would have cursed or blubbered and given up by now, but Prussia kept his gaze directed forward at all times. What focus he had was directed straight ahead.

However, determined though he might have been, Canada could see the toll it took. By the time they reached the edge of town, tents and trucks and people spread out across the field, Prussia was shaking. Canada could feel it under his hand, feel the burning heat of a high fever radiating off his skin. He wouldn't be able to go much further if they had needed to, nation or not. Not with the accumulated pain, exhaustion and illness sitting like a demon on his shoulders, pulling him down to the earth.

Once they reached the last building, Canada pushed them into an alcoved doorway, the heavy wooden door still firm and solid on its hinges, despite that the white plaster walls were streaked with splattered mud and dirt. He lent Prussia back against it, easing the helmet off his head. That would be the first thing that identified him as an enemy, but with it off, he looked like any other average soldier to the humans around them – excluding, of course, his albinism, but the soldiers would be able to dismiss that as an oddity, not seeing that as a reason to cry wolf to England or America.

There were dirt and smudges of blood on Prussia's cheeks, streaked by the rain, the water caught in his eyelashes and on his lips, though his hair was dry. He had the look of a soldier, the look that said he had seen things and done things – thing that haunted him in the shadows of his face and had long ago stripped him of a naivety and innocence – that no average man should ever have to do.

As he looked up at Canada, seeming almost vulnerable and _human_ without the helmet on his head, Canada noticed, for the first time, the look of darkness behind the crimson of his eyes.

It was a darkness that all nations shared, whether they bothered to hide it or not. It was present in all of them. Through the years, he had seen it in England and America, and had even seen traces of it in Spain, possibly one of the happiest nations in the world, who hid it under a visage of passion, sunshine and a zest for life few possessed. He had seen it in Norway and Iceland, when they had found him, hidden in the snow, as their eyes darkened upon laying eyes on a new nation – and France, hundreds of years later, had that predatory gleam in his eyes as he had picked Canada up and away from his own land. He had seen it in Germany, after the Great War, the haunted look as he cast looks upon the nations that had allied against him.

China's eyes often grew dull as he found his troops were going to be fighting against Japanese soldiers. Russia's eyes held the gem of childish cruelty, but he often looked openly pained as he heard about Belarus' continued downfall as the war continued and the news of Ukraine's resisting nationalist armies allying with the Axis instead of against them, taking a little part of his older sister away from him.

Even Italy, whose happy-go-luckiness and perpetual cheer Canada had admired during the Great War while they were allied together, looked distant while looking at France. Even now, despite that neither Romano nor Italy were allied with Germany any longer, sometimes, in the dead of night, he could hear Italy muttering what he figured to be a prayer over and over again. Canada couldn't claim to know much Italian, but he could at least figure out what _Germania _meant.

And Canada himself? He has always had a sort of darkness within him, even before Norway came, thousands of years before, when his tribes warred and fought and he was caught in the middle of it all. He is, in fact, as old as most of the European countries and much, much older than _his dear big brother. _And throughout his life as a nation, he has worked to suppress that darkness as much as possible, to make sure France stayed with him, to make sure England didn't give him away, to make sure he didn't scare America away.

Norway had taught him how to fight, Norway had taught him how to speak his language, Norway had taught him how to _survive _in a way he had never known how to before – not that he expected the Nordic nation to remember him at all nowadays. But he had kept the Viking teachings in his heart and had proudly spoken their language until France had come, until he had found out that France thought him an absolutely vile creature – until he had found out that he had to _change_, or France was going to leave him there, all alone – just like Norway and Iceland had. He would be abandoned, again, without anyone but his people, who couldn't hope to understand him.

Before the two Nordics had arrived in his land, he had his darkness, as any nation did, but it had been left to fester, to ripen, after they had left. And then…

He had stabbed France in their first meeting, through the stomach, because _how dare _they trespass on _his _land – he was _Kanata_, he was _Vinland_; nobody had any right to _colonize _him. After being handed off to England, he had been the British man's little nightmare, speaking nothing but French and Norse until America had finally prodded him enough to say something in English.

And later, he had burnt down America's heart, grinning, holding his little brother down and forcing him to _watch_. He had fought at Ypres, the Somme and Passchendaele, and at _Vimy _and proved himself again and again. Germany's troops had _abandoned _him upon finding that they were going to fight the Canadian stormtroopers.

It is _he _who Germany fears, the nation who broke through the captured the _impenetrable _Vimy Ridge from his troops, the nation who is fierce and fights with fire in his eyes. The nation who is able to smile and _grin _when he comes face to face with the enemy on the field, the nation who was able to attack Germany by himself, who was able to pin the _empire _down and snarl, "_This is __**our **__victory." _The nation who marched through the streets of Italy while the other Allies went to Rome, who fought in the streets, battle after battle… He is the nation that haunts Germany's nightmares and dammit if he isn't proud of himself.

But it is not only the other nations that fear Canada – he fears himself as well. England and France tend to leave out the little details of Canada's "childhood" when asked, but he remembers. He had always had to hold himself back. It is so easy to lose control, he remembers. So easy. _Too easy._

Every nation has their darkness. Even Canada – sweet, shy, kind, peaceful little Canada – has something to hold back, to hide. Italy and Spain conceal themselves under facades of happiness. America obscures his in the veil of a hero complex and an ego bigger than his own nation. And Canada? Canada pushes his darkness down as far as he can, past all his qualms of being invisible and overshadowed and ignored, to the very bottom of his soul, where just like millennia ago, it festers.

Because he would much rather face being invisible to his fellow nations than constantly fear that he could _lose control. _

War brings out the worst in every nation, every human. Canada hates war not only because he hates fighting – which, in fact, is only half true, because though he would never dare to admit it to anybody, he would love to fight back against Cuba when is mistaken for his brother time and time again. However, the fear that he would lose control is always present; the berserker quality was all about being impossible to curb, after all. – but because warfare brings out the child Norway and Iceland had abandoned in Vinland, the one who relied purely on instincts to survive.

And now, he had seen Prussia's darkness as well, one that had formed and had only grown during the thousands of years he had gone through. He could see the pain, the hurt caused by Hungary and Austria and Germany and Italy, by Russia and Denmark, by England and France.

And then Prussia blinked. It was gone. There was only anger and indignity left in its wake.

With a hard knot in his stomach, Canada buckled the helmet to Prussia's pack before taking the coat from his shoulders. He seemed reluctant to part with it, his movements slow, stiff, and forced as he let Canada pull it off his hands and fold it away. "I'll give this back to you later," Canada assured. "But I don't want them to panic over nothing. I'll get us through nice and quiet." He tried to offer his best smile, but it felt weak even to himself. Prussia merely sneered in response and turned his face away, eyes cast to the floor.

With the coat safely folded away into the pack, Canada wrapped his arm around Prussia's waist and turned them back towards the camp. God, he was so skinny…

The camp was just a clump of quickly rigged tents set up in a field. The ground the tents were erected on had not yet been completely churned to mud. Instead, there was still grass and late flowers springing up between the tires and tent poles, greenery that undoubtedly would have fed the cows and goats that had once belonged to the people of this little town.

The army had slaughtered what animals they had found along the way, the 'spoils' of war for soldiers who could not live off the rations they were given with the work they were forced to do. Most would do anything for fresh meat or fruit. Passing a field with growing produce meant soldiers rushing to fill their helmets with grapes and tomatoes, or anything else they could find. Food was food, after all, no matter what exactly it was.

To their left, Canada could spy two officers under the eaves of a larger tent – a human and England, talking down to a small group of stiff backed privates. The human was a decent enough man, but England was hard assed and war worn and, with his debt to America growing and his economy in the toilet, he was an utter bastard to speak to.

Canada quickly steered them right, away from their eyes and began scanning faces, watching out for America, skirting along the edge of camp. They were lucky enough not to catch the attention of England, the older nation too caught up with his lecturing, or perhaps he hadn't noticed Canada's arrival in the first place. Either way, they had managed to get by scot free.

Going through the camp, they didn't turn any heads, even ducking around the backs of tents and trucks to keep them safely out of sight and mind. Canada wasn't the only one assisting the walking wounded, thankfully, and with Prussia held close to his side, no one seemed to notice the foreign uniform.

He could feel Prussia shivering and noticed the way his footsteps began to falter more and more, one hand still pressed to the wound at his side. It had begun to bleed thicker and faster, seeping in between Prussia's fingers, bright and sticky. It wouldn't be long before his knees gave out and Canada really didn't think he could carry Prussia on his own. He was sure he could for a while, despite them being roughly around the same height, though not without a struggle and not without being noticed.

God, he never should have done this. This had been a stupid idea from the beginning.

If England had seen them, he probably would have shot Prussia, then again for good measure, before throwing him to the side of the road or locking him up somewhere. And that thought struck horror in Canada's chest – horror that he hadn't felt since the very first time he had killed someone, courtesy of Norway, horror that shook him and left him desperately trying to avoid both England and America in an attempt to keep Prussia somewhat safe, all but dragging the Prussian along as his feet became less and less cooperative. It wouldn't be long until he would again pass out into unconsciousness and sink from barely walking to barely breathing.

Canada didn't want to think about what could happen if America happened to come across them. His brother could be so unpredictable in situations such as these – even after knowing him for hundreds of years, Canada still found himself being surprised by some of America's reactions. He was still such a young nation – would be really be able to separate the human part of him from the nation half? Would he see Prussia as the man who had travelled across the ocean to assist him during his war for independence, or would he see him only as an enemy that deserved to die? It was hard to say.

And frankly, Canada didn't want to take a chance.

Canada began to speak, low and quiet words that were supposed to be reassuring but came out as shaken as he felt. "It'll be alright, Prussia. I promise. I'll help you…"

He could see it – Prussia's death, circling like a buzzard around his head. The Allies had decided they wanted him dead – and dead he would be, once victory arrived in their favour. There wasn't a thing Germany or anybody else could do to keep him alive. America and England had already decided that Prussia was the reason this entire war started in the first place, that without his influence, Germany would have learned his lesson the first time.

His fingers still clutched at Canada's coat as he stumbled with every step. There was blood on his fingers, stretching up his wrist and arm, staining his pale skin red, soaking in a dark stain through his shirt and down onto his trousers, diluted by the rain.

"Stupid… fucking kid." Prussia choked on his words, feet finally slipping out from beneath him on slick mud and grass. Canada barely had time to catch him, feeling the Prussian's chest heave against his side. His shuddering breaths spoke only of pain and exhaustion, his indignity and anger taking a back seat as he desperately tried to catch his breath. "I told you to… leave me alone…"

Canada stumbled, struggling under the weight before they hit the side of an empty truck, both his arms locked awkwardly around Prussia's waist. They were both soaked and there was rain clouding his eyes, the two packs and rifles on his shoulders weighing him down, but none of that mattered in that moment. Canada was determined not to let him go, not to let him fall.

But _why_? He had aimed and fired his gun so many times before, manning Browning 50 calibre machine guns and cutting down soldiers like weeds, sat behind the controls of a tank and known the crunch of bodies and bones beneath the tread. It was war and in war, you killed the enemy. He should have been jaded enough, hardened enough not to feel so gutted at the prospect of leaving Prussia to suffer all on his own. But he did.

He knew that if he had left Prussia up there in that building, the face of the fallen empire, stained with the dirt of a battlefield, darkened by days and years of conflict, would haunt his conscious mind. It seemed like an infinite cruelty, to leave when Prussia had for whatever reason spared him. His conscience wouldn't let him. It was his bizarre way of repaying a… favour, he supposed.

The slap of boots on the wet dirt behind them made Canada freeze, listening intently to the approach of another soldier. He turned his head, trying to see around the truck, struggling to keep both himself and Prussia upright and hidden at the same time. The footsteps were drawing nearer, just a single set of boots, someone moving in a fast jog. It was a nation, he knew that much. But whether it was England or America, he couldn't tell. He had heard Russia was supposedly going to join up with their troops at some point, so it could have easily been him, as well.

"Mattie!"

_Tabernac. _America.

Canada jumped, twisting again as the soldier rounded the other side of the truck.

"Mattie! I was… What the fuck? Is that Pru–"

"Shut up, Alfred!" Canada hissed, waving his hand frantically for silence, almost losing the grip he had around Prussia's waist. "Come help me, please!"

Taking a peek at his brother's face, Canada could only let out a sigh of relief as he didn't notice any immediate signs of anger. His brother only blinked in shock, blue eyes wide, even as he dashed forward to give Canada a hand. They both looped one of Prussia's arms around their neck and shoulder and took his weight equally. "He's injured," Canada said. "Badly. I need to get him to one of the tents. He needs to be patched up properly."

America looked unsure, eyes still impossibly wide, flickering between the fallen nation they were carrying and his older brother; it was though as if he wasn't sure he was really seeing what he was seeing. "Bro, are you serious? What the hell, man? What–"

"America!" Canada snapped, making his brother shut his mouth immediately. Between them, nation names were used exclusively in meetings. They were only Alfred and Matthew to each other outside of political settings – the best of bros, as America would always proudly announce. His younger brother turned his eyes on him, looking a little hurt.

"Al…" Canada began in a softer voice, soothing. "Do you trust me?" A nod. "Do you trust my judgement?" Another nod. "Okay, thank you. Then trust me when I say I–" _kind of, _Canada added mentally, "–know what I'm doing, please. Just help me."

They moved much faster with both of them moving Prussia, dashing between tents under America's guidance, until they came to one situation next to an old, rotting wooden fence. There was barbed wire coiled across the topmost wooden beam and beyond that, a trench was piled high on one side with sandbags. The trench was German dug and if the camp was to be attacked, it was the soldiers stationed at this point who would be first to know about it.

Behind the sandbags, there was more field, stretching off to a distant line of trees. England had told them that the body of German Corps, including tank or Panzer units, were situated within those woods. An air strike had been attempted on the camp, right before the Corps had moved in through the town, but Canada had been told the planes had been gunned down and all contact with the pilots successfully severed.

Those distant trees seemed ominous to him, like the malicious forest encroaching around Macbeth's castle, something alive and deadly, but the field itself was utterly silent. Pitted with holes and worn with the feet of soldiers, what grass there was swayed under the grey sky, lapping against the burnt out shell of a tank and the corpse of a soldier. The field looked old and timeless in its silence and Canada vaguely wondered what kind of things it had seen. The New World was young yet, he thought, but in Europe, the soil was littered with the history of man, his conquests and his tragedies.

He only paused for a moment, the noise of the tents' fluttering canvas like a bat by his ear, before he felt Prussia's fingers roughly poke him in the shoulder and he remembered himself. He still only faintly heard Prussia's muttered "dummkopf".

America entered first, manoeuvring the wounded nation between them. There were already two sets of fresh supplies inside. One of which, Canada assumed, was for himself, and without being asked, America unfolded a new cot and lay it down on the tent's damp floor.

Gently, Canada eased Prussia down onto the cot, surprised to see that his eyes were still open and conscious. He was still scowling, his laps parted over each sharp intake of breath, but he still seemed to be aware of the things happening around him. His eyes flitted over both America and Canada before they fell closed momentarily and he breathed out a scratchy, "Fuck… whatever…"

It appeared to disturb America, who rocked back and forth on his heels as he watched as Canada unbutton Prussia's shirt, peeling away what remained of the soaked and sodden bandages to show the two inch knife wound, the skin around it swollen and puffy. It was still bleeding, Prussia's stomach and even up to his chest slick with smeared blood. Canada couldn't tear his eyes away, staring down at the dark, open tear in the Prussian's body. It was worse than he had imagined – longer, deeper and older. Scabbed over, and then torn once more.

"Take a picture," Prussia rasped, eyes turned towards the wall of the tent. "It'll last longer."

"Go get the doctor, quickly," Canada said, ignoring Prussia's words, watching as America dashed out of the tent.

Canada pressed his hand to the Prussian's cheek and turned his face to try and meet those defiant eyes – eyes that also looked to be on the verge of passing out once again. Prussia's expression was cold and expressionless, like the glacial peaks of the Swiss Alps, as frigid as the coldest day General Winter would dare to throw at him. It wasn't until Canada patted his cheek softly and called out to him, his fingers leaving blood streaks across Prussia's face, did he get much of a reaction.

For a moment, just one moment, something shifted in Prussia's eyes and Canada was able to see that pain one more time before Prussia's eyes slid closed with a soft sigh. He body went as still as it had been when Canada had found him, leaving the most northern part of the New World to watch the rise and fall of Prussia's chest, checking the flutter of his heartbeat, bandages balled up in his fingers and pressed to the weeping wound.

Somewhere, the distant rumble of planes filled the air. A bass beat beneath the staccato rhythm of rain on canvas and the tramp of soldiers' boots in the dirt. Not for the first time, Canada wished he was anywhere but here. This was hell.

There were times that he hated the Axis soldiers with every burning piece of his being, when a friend or an ally crumpled like a puppet with cut strings, a bullet bringing them down to death's doorstep. It was what inspired him and all men, it seemed, to lift their guns and fire at the enemy, revenge and rage written on their skin in blood.

But now, as he looked down at Prussia, Canada could find no hatred. He found nothing but dooming compassion.

He found a wretched shadow of hope.

* * *

**A/N **;; The next chapter is going to be pretty short – just a warning for you ahead of time, guys.

**Minooshka: **Aww, you work in a _museum_? That's so awesome! I think that would be a pretty cool job – especially at a history museum! I've always wanted to take a tour of the National Canadian War Museu, but I never get a chance to whenever I visit. And I'm rather honoured that you feel my work is good enough to be featured in a training guide. You're welcome to use a few passages, if you'd honestly like to. Thank you for your review!

**Elisabeth Day: **Don't feel bad! That wasn't my intenton… well, it kind of was… but I digress! Not many people bother to review one chapter, never mind all of them. If you're actually going to do this, you have my full respect. I can never really keep it up myself. Thanks for the review!

**Tapion580: **Thanks! And I can't really answer your questions (that would be considered _spoilers _– and nobody likes those!), but you'll see.

**Saya Kurobara: **Thanks for your review!

Stay awesome, guys.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N **;; Welcome, readers, to the revised version of chapter four! Man, was this chapter ever a _bitch _to edit, seriously. I spent all my free times during May 24th to May 27th trying to edit this piece of shit, and it's not up to the standard I set for myself in this story. I had originally published this chapter when it was in a not-so-awesome state (AKA I didn't want to make my readers wait any longer for another chapter – I was going on two weeks with no word – and I didn't want to give them another Canada-centric chapter), so it kind of totally sucked.

But it's better now!

…I think.

…Somewhat.

**[Edited May 24****th**** to May 27****th****, 2013 – fixed some grammar/sentence structure issues, extended the chapter, attempted to fix confusion pertaining to this chapter, added German, added Latin, added Italian, adjusted headcanons]**

* * *

**The Spoils of War**

**…o…**

**Chapter Four**

**…o…**

* * *

It rained – a noise like drummed fingers that trickled through the veil of fog that lay over his mind, but would not wake him. He lay in rest within the cocoon of unconsciousness, listening to, but not hearing, the sounds of life around him. The sound of a spoken word, the feeling of a gentle, feather-light touch… they could only chase him like phantoms, but he would not abandon his peace for them, cloaked beneath the inky velvet of sweet obliviousness, where he was kept warm and safe – a deep, dark well of comfort that fluttered on the edge of his mind like the softest of silks.

But such peace was unsustainable, and slowly, it was ripped away from him, shuffling him along the plank to teeter on the brink of thought and memory. It left him suspended for a moment before, with one final push, he fell back into his own mind, haunted by the memory of cold and grief and war, looking into a mirror of his own face.

The reflection of smile smiled; a curving of his lips, like sunshine, that did not breach the darkness of winter in his eyes. He saw his usual awesomeness there, his ego as large and as prominent as ever, but under that shield of confidence, he could see faint traces of fear – fear that he probably wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been looking down on himself, floating above his own reflection.

This reflection of him below was like his face, and yet it was not. This face was younger, less defined than the face he had now, sharpened by the rather large loss of weight he had lost just before the beginning of the Second World War, and he realized he was looking at himself as he had been before the Great War, before he had merged with Germany to create their conjoined Empire. He was looking down at himself, with his shoulders wide and powerful, his smirk knowing, dressed up as a soldier with his decorated cap in his hands, the iron cross pinned to the lapels of his coat and a rifle hoisted on his shoulder.

The reflection stood before Germany, crouching down to lay a hand on his shoulder – this had been a time when his brother stood no taller than his waist. The wind was bitter, cold, and sharp with the chill of winter, and he knew his fingertips would be cold against his little brother's neck. He could see Germany shiver under the contact, the fine hairs along his neck coming to attention, as he clutched his coat a little bit tighter around himself.

His past self opened his mouth to say something, but the words were ripped away by the sound of screeching, scream train brakes. He could see Germany visibly clench his teeth as the sound rung loudly in his ears and even Prussia himself, floating above his reflection and the younger version of his brother, raised his hands to cover his ears. The sound was nearly deafening, even in his memory – or perhaps his delusion, or his hallucination, but it seemed much too vivid for that.

Prussia looked down at the younger Germany fondly. His little brother had been so cute back then, so studious and eager to please his only sibling. He had been such an interesting child, determined to prove himself to Prussia as soon as he possibly could with everything he started – he specifically remembered that Germany had picked up swordplay rather quickly, much to both of their delights – though he had often become ill because of unrest within his states.

Despite this, however, he had always been able to get back onto his feet. He had been a strong nation, even back then. His loyalty to his training and unwillingness to give in had always been something Prussia had taken pride in with his brother, knowing that it had been _him _who his brother had learned these traits from. He had never cried when injured during their swordplay lessons, always pushed himself to the point of exhaustion, his habits of cleanliness and punctuality had managed to surpass even Prussia's own, and he had been able to follow orders surprisingly well for such a young nation… all different points that had used in his favour when Austria used to pester him about the boy and how capable he was of raising him.

And to think, _Austria _had been the one that had wanted to raise his brother. He had known from the start exactly what would happen to his brother if he did hand over custody of Germany to Specs. He would have turned Germany into a tea-sipping, polite little sissy stick-in-the-mud, just like himself! Pssh, like he would ever let that happen – dealing with one prissy, weak nation daily was enough for him! It sickened him enough as it was!

Austria's insistence had eventually died down as decades had passed and he realized that Prussia really wasn't going to budge in his decision, though he had never quite stopped giving Prussia distasteful and disapproving looks when he saw the two brothers together. In turn, Prussia had never stopped scowling at his neighbouring nation, whether Germany was in tow or not. His hatred was not as petty as to only come forth when his little brother was involved. It extended to all times, at any place, in any situation.

He had even tried to teach Germany to stay away from Austria at all costs, but somehow, despite his best efforts and totally not exaggerated stories, Germany had still ended up developing a certain kind of affection for Specs – an affection that, even in the present time, Prussia still didn't approve of.

Prussia scowled, directing his thoughts away from the pathetic cheapskate and onto someone more important. He looked back down at his reflection and the younger Germany, drinking in the sight of his brother looking so… innocent, blue eyes utterly _adoring _as he looked up at Prussia's reflection, relishing in the rare show of affection.

The Germany he was looking down at now was so incredibly different than the one he knew in the present day. The Germany he knew now was blinded by war and the lust for power, as most nations tended to be, at one point or another in their history – as he had been, once upon a time. The Germany he knew now held hatred and self-loathing in his eyes underneath the front he threw up, as the human part of his brother warred for control with his own country's influence. The Germany he knew now sported a limp as he walked, as much as he tried to hide it with perfect stances and rigid movements, his face scrunching up in pain as soon as he was out of the public eye.

Below him was the Germany he missed – though he would be _damned _if he would ever admit that to anybody but his awesome self. The little brother below was the one who would sit up all night until Prussia arrived home and would scold him when he walked through the door, as if he were the younger one of the two. This little brother would quietly wrap his arms around his neck when he returned from another battle alive and well.

This little brother had made to him a promise well over a hundred years ago, looking up at him after another session of sword play, promising Prussia with the look of utmost seriousness on his face that he would one day become strong enough to protect his big brother just as Prussia protected him. And Prussia still held him to that promise, even now.

But most of all, what set the two versions of his little brother apart was that this brother didn't _hate _himself.

Prussia hummed thoughtfully as he observed, wondering if he would get the little brother – his tough, serious, always collected, emotionally challenged Germany – back, or if he would be faced with the hollow shell of who his brother used to be forever. He wondered if his little brother, who believed cleanliness was next to godliness, who fretted when Prussia didn't return exactly at the time he had promised to be back, who paced a hole into the floor whenever Hungary managed to knock Prussia senseless, would ever return.

And, looking back on himself now, he realized that this younger version of him was just as naïve as his kid brother. This was a him that believed nothing would change. This reflection believed – and had convinced himself – that his kingdom was going to last forever, that his little brother was always going to stay this clean and was always going to look up to him with adoration in his eyes, that his reign as an empire was going to last until the world ended.

Oh, how foolish he had been.

Drawn from his thoughts at the sound of Germany's voice, Prussia looked down at his reflection and his brother. His eyebrows hiked up as his eyes followed Germany's movements, as he stepped forward, awkwardly looping his arms around Prussia's reflection's neck, pushing his face into the shoulder of his uniform. "_Abschiedsgruβ, Bruder," _he muttered quietly, and from above, Prussia had to strain his ears to hear him.

That was another part he missed about his brother, he supposed – he hadn't been so opposed to touching when he was younger, and his movements weren't quite as stiff in gestures such as this. Not that he could really complain, though. His hadn't been that much better.

His reflection grinned, only pausing for a moment before he easily circled his arms around Germany's back, trapping the child against his chest. Prussia leaned down, attempting a swimming motion through the air to perhaps lower himself a bit more. As it was, he could barely hear his own reply.

"_Zu dir komm ich immer zurück," _he said, voice surprisingly subdued. _"Immer, Lutz."_

_But how long could he keep that promise? _

"Es tut mir leid…" Prussia muttered.

_He didn't know._

* * *

There's was a little hand clenched in his reflection's in this memory, and when Prussia looked to the figure beside the reflection, squeezing his hand, he saw Holy Roman Empire. The boy looked up at the younger version of Prussia, serious and frowning, before his eyes flickered over to where Italy stood, watching the little nation worriedly. Italy looked so awfully sad, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, clutching both hands in the bottom of Hungary's dress, while the woman patted the top of his head comfortingly.

Holy Rome's eyes returned to his reflection once again, cocking his head slightly, silently asking for permission to join Italy and Hungary. Thankfully, Austria hadn't bothered to show up, having no interest in seeing Prussia off. Which was just as good, Prussia thought, nodding to himself from where he floated above, since he wasn't very much interested in seeing Specs in this memory either.

His reflection gave his consent without a word and let go of Holy Rome's hand, watching as the boy rushed towards Italy, taking one of his hands from Hungary's dress and holding it gently. It seemed to quell some of the distress of the little Italian nation's face, smoothing out some of the worry and even bring a little smile to his face.

His reflection's eyes rose to meet Hungary's, a silent understand passing between them before she stepped forward, laying a dainty hand on his arm. In turn, Prussia raised his other hand and covered hers with his own, prying it from his arm, though he didn't let go. Neither of them said anything, and they only had a moment of silence before Italy came rushing forward, dragging Holy Rome along with him, the heels of his shoes clacking on the stone floor.

Prussia floated above the little group, arms crossed over his chest as he watched. Italy's understanding of war, at this point, was limited. And because of that, his innocent happiness shone on his skin in gold. Prussia saw the brightness of the little nation's pretty face, heard his faint wishes for his reflection's wellbeing and his praise. That he return home safely, as a hero no less.

His reflection released Hungary's hand, looking down towards Holy Rome, crouching down to lift his little brother off the ground despite his protests. Italy laughed gleefully and Hungary giggled behind her hand as he pulled his cap more tightly around Holy Rome's ears, ignoring his struggling, smirking victoriously. He leaned forward and pressed a little kiss to his younger brother's forehead, only laughing harder when a blush reddened Holy Rome's face.

Holy Rome stared hotly at the ground, his entire face, right up to the tips of his ears, turning a very interesting shade of red, muttering a little farewell. _"Vale, frater," _the boy murmured as Prussia placed him back on the ground.

Prussia smiled faintly as Italy leaped forward, looping his little arms around the reflection's neck, standing up on his toes to plant a little kiss on his cheek, much to the agitation of Holy Rome and the amusement of Hungary. "_Ciao, fratello," _Italy said as he pulled back, flashing a big smile.

The reflection managed a little grin for the young Italian nation, standing up. Sending one last cocky grin, a wink, and a wave for Hungary, listening for her sigh as the two young nations rushed back towards her side, Prussia left.

He was gone.

Again.

* * *

Another memory.

This time, it was one of Hungary sitting across from him, the biting wind whipping her hair in her face. They were young then – still growing nations, still developing, neither of them empires – or a part of one. Her tunic was ragged and worn, and she looked absolutely exhausted as she stared at him, heavy green eyes lined with dark bags locking with red. Even through her exhaustion, she looked beautiful regardless, her cheeks stung pink with the cold, her lips a deep, glorious red.

He missed these times, he thought pensively. He missed these times where it was just Hungary and him, when there was no Austria to screw up and drive a wedge in their relationship, when his biggest worry was if he was going to start another war with Poland that day, when he had still been able to pull an honest smile without his feeling as though it was going to break in half from the effort. Life – even as a nation – had been so much easier back then.

It was during these times when he could still call Hungary his best friend – not that she would necessarily agree to the term, more likely to call him a 'pest' or a 'rival' – but never aloud. Aloud, they were enemies in name only, conspirators against their common challenges and the ghosts of desserts, always ready to defend each other if the time called for it.

The moment the younger him stood, she threw herself gracelessly into his arms, nearly toppling the both of them over in the grass again. Her fingers clenched tightly in his white uniform, scrunching the soft fabric under her grip. She hid her face in the crook of his neck and from above, Prussia smiled wistfully as he watched the two young nations embrace. He hadn't missed the blush that had burst out of his reflection's cheeks as Hungary had latched onto him.

"_Don't get hurt, you moron," _Hungary had whispered into the collar of his uniform, breath ghosting along his bare skin. "_Come back, so I can kick your ass again."_

* * *

"_Prussia… come on…"_

"_Wake up…"_

"_Please, Prussia…"_

* * *

**Translations: **  
Abschiedsgruβ – Farewell  
Zu dir komm ich immer zurück – I always come back to you  
Immer – Always  
Es tut mir leid – I'm sorry  
Vale, frater – Farewell, brother (Latin)

**A/N **;; I still don't think this chapter is that great, but after spending nearly four days on it, I thought it was best to give it up for now. Again, I might come back and edit this chapter once again, maybe even scrap it and rewrite the entire thing, but for now… This is the best I can produce.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N **;; Oh, hi there. Welcome back to this story – where in this chapter… the somewhat usual _awesomeness _of my previous chapters has returned! I did a lot of expanding with the revised version of this chapter – and I _finally set a freaking season for this story. _Gah! In the original versions of the four previous chapters, I had jumped from winter to spring to summer, and now, I finally have settled. It's late summer, guys. _Late summer. _

Anyway, there's an OC in this chapter. Readers be warned! I originally wanted to have another Hetalia character show up for this chapter, for the role of the doctor, but there weren't many nations I could think of to use. I had wanted to use Finland, but as I was researching, I realized that _nopenopenope_, that wasn't possible.

This OC will show up in later chapters, by the way. He's a rather prominent character, as is, obviously, _the doctor. _

**[Edited May 28****th****, 2013 – fixed some grammar/sentence structure mistakes, adjusted timeline of story, extended chapter]**

* * *

**The Spoils of War**

**…o…**

**Chapter Five**

**…o…**

* * *

The rain had stopped, but the darkening sky remained an ugly grew. Weighted with water, it promised to spill over in the night and cast its shadow upon the forests and camps. The decimated town was drab and quiet in the distance, besides the headlights of prowling Jeeps that rattled over the cobbled streets; the soldiers sitting in the back with their fingers still positioned on their triggers, but were, for the most part, relaxed.

By the tent, Canada stood knee deep in grass, his eyes turned away from the camp to look across the field towards the distant tree line. He saw dark branches reaching towards the sky, still decorated with a few thick, burning autumn leaves, braced at the roots with piles of low shrubs and bushes that grew amongst the aged trunks. He guessed they were probably black berries and brambles, mistletoe, thistles and prickles that created a natural, hostile wall between their camp and the Axis.

The field was littered, if sparsely, with the bodies of dead men, Allied and Axis alike. The longer he looked, the more he spotted amongst the rippling grass, their uniforms blending them in with the earth and leaves, as was their purpose. A post battle weight settled in the air, though it was more prominent beyond the fence he stood beside. There was silence under the clouds, death an unseen sentinel in black keeping watch amongst the corpses, the bodies of soldiers sheltered in the shadows of his outstretched wings. Dead men, pale faced and immortal in their eternal sleep, the clouded skies reflected off the empty whorls in their eyes. Forever young, forever gone, their blood washed into the dirt amongst late grass and flowers.

To his left, America fumbled with his cigarette tin and lighter, damp, dirt-stained fingers leaving smudges on the white folds of paper as he worked. The smell of tobacco hit the cold, clean air, thick and warm as it drifted into Canada's lungs. America flipped the tin his direction, making a silent offer, and Canada accepted a cigarette with gratitude, a faint, amused smile quirking up the corners of his lips. They settled into a comfortable silence, shuffling their feet together to keep warm.

For a moment, Canada watched America watch the field.

America wasn't an overly tall man, not like Russia or Sweden, but he made up for his height in broadness, moving with a certain swaggering confidence that Canada had come to associate with Americans – New Yorkers in particular – in general. They had gotten into a fight the very first time they had met, but he couldn't remember what it was about – probably something about England or France or languages.

"Granville went with B Company…" America spoke abruptly, but his words were smoke laden and casual. He could have been talking about the weather, but his shoulders shifted and sagged in a way Canada knew meant bad news. He didn't move his eyes from the field, fingers shaking where they held the cigarette, like he didn't want to say whatever he had to say.

Canada's exhale came out unsteady, the smoke coming out in one big puff instead of slowly, curling up in his face and making his eyes burn. He already knew what his brother was talking about – America's body language was much easier to read than the American thought, and, well, he had been expecting this news, as much as he didn't want to admit it.

The human America was talking about was called Granville – no first name, as far as they knew, just Granville. He had managed to work his way into both of the nation's lives since he had landed in June. He had been a little older, physically, than both of them, and liked to think he had more experience. He had been one of England's soldiers, but even so, the grief that hit Canada was low and distant and disgustingly resigned. He felt an ache beneath his chest, like tightened muscle and not enough air, but it was barely distinguishable from the fatigue and overall depression that weighed him down every other day. He probably should have felt more for a man who had considered him a friend.

It almost surprised him when he was able to swallow around the sticky lump in his throat. He could feel his own shaking hands, though he couldn't fathom the cause. Perhaps it was exhaustion, or maybe acceptance. At this point, he could hardly tell the difference between them. "Yesterday?" he muttered, voice even lower than usual – America had to lean in to hear him.

"No, the day before," he replied, taking a puff of his cigarette. He made a point to blow his smoke in Canada's face.

"What happened?" Canada asked, turning his face away.

"Sniper."

The look America threw him made Canada pause, Prussia's face flashing up beneath his eyes. He could see the long, gleaming Karabiner in his hands, pointing straight at him, a deadly piece of heartless metal. He could see the mechanism, waiting, already set in place, snug around a bullet, still and harmless without the provocation of action, a conscious or unconscious decision to pull the trigger and kill or maim the person fixed in sight by the scope.

Canada would have liked to believe that Prussia was not a calculated killer, but he knew he would have only been trying to fool himself. Not only was he a nation, but he had been a nation who had needed to fight in wars to survive – it was what he was born to do. There was nothing that could ever change that. Not to mention he had playing the role of a sniper in that last battle. There was a reason snipers were hated among soldiers. They struck a certain kind of fear into soldiers when the call went out. Every eye would turn to the windows and rooftops, stepping over the bodies of fallen men to try and find cover, searching for the flash of a gun and another fallen comrade.

Canada couldn't bring himself to meet America's eyes, drawing on his cigarette for something to do with his hands. After a moment, when his brother realized he wasn't going to get a response to that, he shook his head, continuing on, "He was out by the end of the Canal, body shot. Dead before the medic could get there…"

"Anyone else?" Canada asked, already dreading the answer.

"A couple others," his brother replied. "I think Sergeant Gordon and most of B. They got wiped out on the road in." America dropped the butt of his cigarette into the grass and ground it out beneath his boot, fingers tucked under his arms in an attempt to keep them warm. "What the hell were you thinking, bro?" he asked, shaking his head once again. It seemed to be something he was doing a lot of recently.

Canada was silent for a moment, digging for an answer.

"He didn't shoot me." The words didn't quite feel justified in his head. It wasn't the whole truth, but how could he even begin to explain himself? How could he explain that the Germanic nation's face just wouldn't let him go without sounding a little crazy? "He could have shot me, I swear. He had me pinned, but he didn't fire. There was just no way I was going to leave him there."

"You and your damn bleedin' heart," America muttered, tsking and rolling his eyes skyward. Canada couldn't quite read the expression on his face, but it seemed like he was being let off the hook, for now. "First it was those fuckin' cats, and now a stray Kraut. When are you gonna do somethin' nice for me, too?"

"You want me to feed you warm milk and brush your hair?" Canada sounded incredulous, but a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, only half present, but present nonetheless. It lightened his soul just a little bit. There were so few reasons to smile in war.

"You had me at milk!" America exclaimed, throwing one of his arms up in the air. "Fuck. If I gotta suffer through one more mouthful of England's soggy 'biscuits', I'm surrendering to the Germans. I heard they got… uh… wurst or something like that. Whatever. It has to be better than what's here, anyway." He scoffed, switching back into his previous position of arms crossed over his chest and fingers hidden beneath his arms.

"It's just propaganda," Canada said. "I heard we're getting Hershey bars mailed out to us next week." He didn't move or blink as America shifted closer to him, their arms pressed together, body warmth seeping through the damp material of their uniforms. He could feel America shivering, but didn't say a word about it. He was cold, too.

America's voice was softer when he spoke again, weighed down. "Now that _is _propaganda."

The cigarette tin was brought out once again and two more cigarettes were lit, though there were few to spare. The two resumed smoking in silence, both sets of eyes focused on the field.

It was beautiful, in a faintly ghastly way. It seemed almost timeless, somehow. Canada was once again struck by the age of the place, of the town behind them, still stuck somewhere between the modern and the ancient world, fringed by sprawling farmland that had been ploughed and used and lived off of for hundreds, or maybe even thousands, of years.

Movement caught the corner of his eye and made his attention turn. It took Canada a moment to pick out the streak of dark fur amongst the grass, but when it stopped and looked towards the camp, Canada's shoulders tensed. America mirrored his sudden shift, but didn't seem to realize what exactly had Canada on edge. It was a dog. Small with the distance, its pointed ears were pricked in attention, a long, shaggy tail poised and still by its legs, frozen and alert. The Canadian recognized the features of a German shepherd easily. He had seen the dogs sporadically since the landing, mostly as corpses, rotting and rank in the green heat of late summer, or wet and bleary eyed with rain.

The dog seemed to be watching them.

Without looking away, Canada elbowed America sharply, who immediately seemed to pick up on the shift in atmosphere – an utter miracle, if Canada had anything to say about it. He followed Canada's gaze, his hands flying up to the rifle slung over his shoulder. In a moment, he had the weapon aimed and ready, the butt of his gun graced against his shoulders and his eye at the sight. The sharp click of the mechanism set shivers down Canada's spine, but before America had time to pull the trigger, the dog had turned and trotted back to the tree line.

For a moment, the two nations remained like that, indecision hanging like a bird on a wire. If the dog went much farther, the bullet wouldn't be able to reach. Not that America was that great of a shot, anyway.

He dropped his gun to his side with a curse, glaring at his wasted cigarette, now nothing but a grey, bent husk floating in a tiny puddle of muddy water. "Fuckin' hell… hate those damn dogs. They probably got a whole fuckin' pack of 'em."

Canada shrugged. "The dogs aren't so bad. I had a puppy like that back home, to keep Kumajirou company while I was gone."

"I bet it ain't a puppy no more…" America muttered, before he perked up slightly, pulling a little grin. "Say, is that girl still sending you letters? We're supposed to get mail in the next base camp." America plucked the half burnt cigarette from Canada's fingers, bringing it to his own lips. "You're a lucky guy, Mattie. You have a lady after you already."

"She would you letters, too, but you offended her. You're the only one of us who doesn't receive them." 'Us', of course, was referring to their screwed up little family – consisting of France, England, America and himself. "'Chelles is a sweetheart." He neglected to mention that he would most likely also being receiving a letter from Ukraine, knowing that would only momentarily lower America's ego more. His brother didn't get letters from anybody, nation or not.

America scoffed. "She hit me with a fish the last time I saw her!" he exclaimed, indignant. "Nothin' about that says 'sweet' to me!"

Oh, yes, Seychelles was sweet – an adorable little sister. "She hit you with a fish because you deserved it," Canada replied smoothly, laughing softly. He didn't bother to mention to America of the second reason he had been knocked unconscious by a very hard smack to the head – that reason being that he had very kindly asked Seychelles to knock some sense into his cocky brother. It had all worked out rather nicely.

The abrupt noise of the tent flap snapping open in the near quiet made them both turn. They expected Doctor Lewis, and it was Doctor Lewis who they got. However, their shoulders were tense nonetheless, watching a man's silhouette emerge into the fading light.

There was blood on the doctor's uniform, dark maroon patches that stood out against the khaki, but that wasn't any surprise – there was always blood on the doctor's uniform. Snatching the cigarette from America's fingers, he tried to glare at Canada, but even that looked nothing but sweet, his face still young and smooth, and entirely too handsome for any type of malice.

And despite that the attempted anger on the doctor's face would have given Canada a good laugh on another, less tense day, he could not bring himself to meet the medic's eyes. It made him feel nervous, almost guilty, like he was doing something wrong when he wasn't, but that was the effect the doctor always seemed to have on him. He had once tried to ask America if he ever got the same feeling, but his brother had just dismissed it as a 'Matt thing'.

Lewis dragged on the cigarette deeply, as though he really needed it, joining the pair in watching the field. "No offense intended, Sir," he began, looking down at Canada, "but what the hell were you thinking?"

"That's what I was asking!" America chipped in, looking much too smug for Canada's own liking. "His damn conscience is turnin' him into a woman!"

"I'm not a woman!" Canada snapped.

"When Arthur finds out about this, you will be. He's gonna cut off your balls and fling 'em at the Krauts."

The Doc snorted in amusement, but his smile was superficial, vanishing after a moment. He pinned Canada with a _look_, dark eyes as serious as the nation had ever seen them before. "You picked him up, Sir, you have to look after him. If I hear that you let all my good work go to waste, I'll kick your ass and hand you to Kirkland myself."

Canada ignored the threat, brushing it off his shoulder without a thought otherwise. He had gotten used to being threatened by humans a long time ago, and what was the point of dwelling on them if knew the human in question wouldn't be able to do a damn thing to him? "Will he be alright?" he asked, eyes drifted towards the tent, then to Lewis' bloody uniform, that knot of tension in his stomach easing none until the doctor nodded.

"He's got a pretty high fever, and he lost a lot of blood, but he'll probably live." Doc delved into one of the deep pockets of his coat, withdrawing a rattling pillbox he tossed at Canada's head, who managed to catch it before it made contact. "Give him those twice a day until they run out. Dress his wounds, get him fed, get him clothed and get him clean. He's wearing half the goddamn battlefield."

Canada stood up, nodding along as the doctor spoke, popping the cap on the pillbox to find about a dozen little orange pills. America mirrored his movements, peaking over Canada's shoulders to see the medication. "What about morphine? Does he need any?"

With a snort, America smacked him upside the head. Well, damn, it seemed as though their positions were beginning to reverse. It was always him who had had to do that to America, before. "He's got a fuckin' stab wound, Matt. Of course he's hurtin'."

"Don't give him any morphine," the doctor answered patiently. "I already dosed him. Besides that, we have to keep the stock for ourselves. I heard we're beginning to run low."

"What ain't we runnin' low on these days?"

Canada rubbed the back of his head, throwing a glare in America's direction. "Apparently everything but cocky Americans," he sneered.

"At least I got balls, eh, Doc? Not like this–"

"Hey, hey! Stop it!" Lewis interrupted as Canada grabbed America by the front of his uniform. He had to look up at Canada, but it hardly mattered. The human had a certain presence about him – a sure strength and a light of passion that made a warm feeling settle in Canada's gut. He was here to save lives. It didn't matter whose life. "I'm not kidding about looking after him. He might be a Kraut, but he's still human. Don't discriminate and all that shit."

America fell silent quickly, surprised by the vehemence in the doctor's words, and Canada felt unbearably small. He was going to look after Prussia, of course he was. He couldn't think of doing anything else but. He wouldn't dare to leave Prussia in the care of anyone other than another nation. Prussia's stumbling words and determined steps had only made Canada more desperate to give him whatever kind of help he could offer. Hell, the very thought of hurting anyone, ever, still revolted Canada to the core. He had never enjoyed fighting – it was just something he had always been forced into, because he represented a nation. It was his duty.

So why was the Doc looking at him like he didn't quite trust him to take this seriously, and why the hell did that hurt so much? "Yes, Doc." His words came out soft, yet obscurely loud in the broad silence, like the subdued clatter of soldiers and the distant growl of engines over cobbled streets. "I understand completely. I'll keep him safe. I swear."

His words barely felt adequate, but something on his face or in his voice must have been enough for Lewis. His shoulders relaxed a fraction, and the faintest of smiles touched his lips, bringing out a dimple in one cheek. "That's good to hear. I'll be checking up on him soon. You make sure you talk to one of the sergeants about this; see if you can get him sent back to England."

To send him to a POW camp, of course. Canada didn't like that idea, not when he had already promised Prussia the freedom to leave, to go back to Germany eventually. However, he nodded his agreement regardless, offering the faintest smile of his own. America grinned and clapped the doctor on the shoulder. "We're even now, right?" Canada asked.

"Yes, Sir." Doctor Lewis snapped him a salute, his smile turning into more a lopsided grin – a bright and real expression, one that lit up his eyes from the inside. Canada tried to widen his smile in response, but looked away, his eyes dropping to the doctor's muddy boots.

"Thanks, Doc. You can leave now. You're probably needed elsewhere."

"I'll come back in the morning," the doctor promised. "Just to see how he's doing." Lewis gave him one last smile before turning to America, a knowing twinkle in his eyes. "You know, I heard some rumours about fresh bread…"

"Are you fuckin' serious?" America smiled, the expression just as wide as his country was. As the doctor turned and began to walk away, America hurried after him, offering a vague wave in Canada's direction.

As Canada watched the two retreating figures, it began to rain. A single, icy drop fell on his cheek before the patter of water on dirt and canvas began in a more steady rhythm. Turning his eyes to the swirling grey sky, now cast in thickening twilight, he sighed, dull and heavy, before ducking into the tent.

* * *

**A/N **;; For those who don't know, I didn't pull that caution with the German Shepherd thing out of my ass. During WWII, German Shepherds had many uses, such as locating enemy ambushes, food and medical supplies, and missing or wounded soldiers. They could be used as mine detectors, sentries, scouts, and messengers. They were also used in concentration camps, to either guard or to chase down prisoners who managed to escape the barbed wire. The comment where America says 'they probably have a whole pack of 'em' is based on the fact that in the beginning of the Second World War, the German army had about 200,000 dogs trained and ready for military work. Because most dogs were used on the front lines, a lot of them were killed. Poor dogs…

Next chapter: France and Italy appear!

**Dragon Silhouette: **I know _exactly_ how you feel, which is why I swore to myself that I would never, ever, _ever _write a High School AU story with Hetalia. The worst I could do with that would be in the Academy universe, but I don't think I could even bring myself to write that. Anyway, thank you so much for your wonderful review and compliments!

**Elisabeth Day: **Ah. It seems you're the second person I've put off from studying. This seems to be becoming a bad habit for me. XD You probably did great on your test, anyway! Thanks for the information on your profile picture and your review, as always.

Stay awesome, readers!


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N **;; This chapter is kind of lacking in Prussia/Canada interaction. It's more North American bros interaction. And France. And some Italy, too, I guess. Italy wasn't even supposed to be in this chapter, or the entire story, for that matter, but the original version of this chapter featured an OC I was able to replace with Italy. He's one of my favourite characters, anyway. :3

Anyway, you guys do not have a _clue _how much trouble I had with looking up the different branches of the German military and what ranks I was going to give Prussia and Germany. Ugh… I can claim to be a history nerd and all that, with all my knowledge of battles and such, but as for the finer parts of WWII… I'm kind of clueless. This story is giving me a reason to study WWII early… because I have a list for these kind of things.

**Random Fact of Awesomeness: **It was the **Prussians **who were the first army to use dog tags.

**[Edited May 28****th****, 2013 – fixed up some grammar/sentence errors, extended the chapter, added Italy, adjusted a little part of the plot]**

* * *

**The Spoils of War**

**…o…**

**Chapter Six**

**…o…**

* * *

The water in the pail was pleasantly warm, heating over the guttering flame of a cooker. The burner filled the tent with flickering blue light, washing Prussia in a pale off-white that seemed to turn his already pallid skin into marble – a carved statue, the ancient effigy of a young warrior, laid out in eternity across the lid of a stone coffin.

Canada soaked the dark rag in the pail of water, warm liquid dripped down his wrist and dampening the rolled up cuff of his uniform.

It was almost dark, but Prussia had yet to wake up. He lay still and quiet on his back, looking almost dead, save for the slow rise and fall of his chest. Canada knelt beside him, watching the Prussian's face for any flickers of life, of consciousness. His eyes searched for the bat of a translucent eyelash in dreaming, the twitch of his mouth that would curl into a cocky, smug smirk or curve down into an ugly sneer, but none of that came. In the end, he tore his eyes away, disturbed by the illusion of the sleeping dead.

It had surprised him the first time as he had laid his long fingers on Prussia's chest and still felt the warmth of a fever beneath his digits, pulling away cloth that revealed pale and scarred skin beneath layers of caked on dirt.

Canada cleaned blood from the muscled planes of his stomach and the arch of hip bones, just a little too sharp with shadows too deep. He cleaned carefully around the wound, gently wiping away dirt from either side of Prussia's ribs – which he shouldn't have been able to see and count so easily. Prussia had obviously suffered not enough food and far too much hard work, as they all had, and it showed in the bones beneath his skin. But even despite that, Canada could see that he was still strong, hardened with wiry muscle that showed even in his sleep.

He cleaned softly with the cloth, water chasing thin lines across the Prussian's chest, curving along the hard line of his collarbone.

It was Prussia's face that Canada cleaned last, washing dirt from beneath the sharp line of his jaw and the high arch of his cheekbone, cleaning blood from the corner of his lips and from the thin scar by his hairline.

He looked capable. He looked strong and handsome, even wounded and unconscious. His skin looked almost flawless from a distance, save for the countless scars, and the callouses on his palms matching the prolonged use of weapons. Canada couldn't look away, feeling unexpected nausea rising in his chest. Goddammit, he was feeling guilty.

Canada ground his teeth together, squeezing the cloth tightly. The only thing that was separating Prussia from the other Axis nations he could _hate _just so much was the lack of a uniform and the wrap of bloodstained bandages across his lower stomach. It was a reminder that Prussia – just like the rest of them, just like all other nations – was not immortal, and that had Canada left, he would be condemned to suffer in silence.

With a sigh, he rocked back on his heel, dropping the cloth into the pail and turning the burner off. His dog tags clinked together against his chest and he reached up, purely out of habit, and wrapped his hand up against the flat metal, relishing in the coolness against his skin, running a thumb across the name and number carved into them. But the sight of his tags made him pause for a moment, the metal ice cold beneath his fingers. His eyes turned to Prussia's neck, where the ball chain sat as a thin, unobtrusive line against his throat, the tags having slipped behind his head.

Canada reached out and took hold of the chain where it dropped beside the Prussian's neck, tugging free the circular tags. They clicked, dented and tarnished, but there were four, not just two.

_SS-Hstuf. L. Beilschmidt_

_SS-Stubaf. G. Beilschmidt _

The tent flap being abruptly shoved aside made Canada jump; he dropped the tags to Prussia's chest, but it was only America, with a wide grin on his face and two dented metal bowls in his hands, thankfully enough. "What are you lookin' guilty for, Mattie? The Kraut call your name in his sleep or something?"

Canada ducked his head with a frown, taking the bowl in both hands as he was offered it. "He was just wearing two dog tags, is all."

"Huh?" Carelessly, America grabbed the pail and tossed the entire thing out of the tent, clearing himself a space on Prussia's other side before sitting down properly. "What's so strange about that? You still got your old tags, don'tcha?"

"Well, yes… But it's just… one of the tags are Germany's." He rested the bowl on one knee and tapped the tags on Prussia's chest. "I was just wondering…"

America shrugged dismissively, throwing the topic to the wind as he looked down at Prussia, raising one blond eyebrow. "Why ain't you got him covered up?"

"Hmm?" Canada hummed distractedly, his mind still focused on Prussia's second set of tags. He couldn't help but wonder how long it would take Germany to begin looking for his brother. He had gone after Italy immediately each time they had captured him earlier in the war, but perhaps he thought Prussia much more capable than Italy, able to take care of himself without his little brother looming over him. How long would it take before Germany realized something was wrong?

"Blankets, bro. Snap outta it. You even listening to me?"

"Yeah," Canada muttered, blinking quickly. "Got it. Blankets." He twisted, grabbing his pack, oblivious to the odd way America was looking at him. It was a stupid thing for him to do… leaving Prussia uncovered when he was especially more vulnerable to disease and infection, but he had been distracted.

America helped him cover Prussia, surprisingly enough, tucking the blankets close to his side and covering his feet, and for the first time since he had passed out, Prussia began to show signs of life. He took a sudden, deep gasping breath, a shudder crawling its way down his spine. His lips moved in a mumble, the words coming from his mouth quickly and utterly unrecognizable.

"You gettin' any of that?" America picked up his bowl, but didn't begin eating, eyes locked on Canada's. He knew neither he nor Canada didn't know anything other than basic German, not past the bare essentials their soldiers were taught, but he asked regardless. It was better than just sitting and listening. "He might say what the damn Krauts are planning."

"I doubt it," Canada muttered in response.

"Well, who knows? They do some pretty strange shit over there. You've heard of that Ilse chick, haven't you? She did some pretty fuckin' twisted shit. Have you checked his kit yet?" A grin curled the edges of America's mouth, though his eyes were grim. He was joking, but it was a good point regardless. He had shoved Prussia's equipment in the corner of the tent, and Canada reached over and dragged it towards him with a frown. It didn't hurt to check, he supposed.

There didn't seem to be much more than the usual things soldiers carried with them. Supplies, a cigarette tin, an unmarked map, a deck of playing cards, a knife, and a small, worn picture of Prussia and Hungary together, presumably taken before the war if their smiles were anything to go by. Canada felt a smile of his own twitching at his lips, but froze as his fingers touched cold metal at the very bottom of the pack, feeling the solid weight of a pistol.

America looked vaguely impressed, pausing to set aside his bowl before making a grab at the long barrelled, gleaming pistol as Canada carefully pulled it out of the bag. He managed to steal it out of Canada's hand, examining the pistol and turning it every switch way, running fingers over the cool metal. "Is this a Luger?" he asked, eyeing Canada as he pointed the gun towards the wall of the tent, grinning. "Nice."

Canada could only shrug, having not put up any sort of fight when America had snatched the gun from his hands. He looked like a child with a new toy. "Fuckin' Russia is gonna get it now!"

"Leave Russia out of this." Canada rolled his eyes skyward. America and Russia had been at each other's throat since his brother had officially decided to join the war – and perhaps their animosity had stretched even before then, but Canada couldn't be sure. Russia was, without exaggerating, a better soldier than America, but he was as dense as a brick and didn't know when to call it quits. He had killed a German commander when they had cleaned out a bunker, taken the dead man's arm, and promptly shoved it in America's face. "He can kick your ass, hands down. You cause another mess and England will have your head on a stick," Canada warned.

"And he's goin' flay you alive when he finds out about this," America retorted, waving a hand around Prussia's still, half unconscious figure. His grin twisted into an unsympathetic smirk – one that had Canada groaning, dropping his face into his hands – and he shrugged.

"You think I don't already _know _that? Stop reminding me…"

"I'm just sayin'!" America defended. "I ain't got a clue what was goin' through your head, but you…" He paused, searching for the right words. "You fucked up, bro."

_Yes, that about sums up things quite nicely._

"Just shut up, would you?" Canada spoke with more force in his voice than he had meant to, the anger in his tone surprising America to the point of an awkward silence. He hadn't meant to snap, but he was tired of hearing the same thing from America over and over again. He knew he was stupid, he knew he had fucked up royally. He knew England was going to give him enough hell that he would be wishing to eat the living eyebrows' home-cooked food rather than listen to him for any longer. And he knew that, as soon as the opportunity presented itself, Prussia would be gone and all his trouble he had went through would be for nothing.

He knew he had been acting entirely selfish, but he had gone one step too far to pull back. It was too late now to correct his mistake.

America went back to eating after a few moments, filling the silence with obnoxious chewing sounds, and with a sigh, Canada picked up his own bowl. The soup was tasteless and gloppy, a slight change from tasteless and thin, but not a better one. He barely had the appetite to eat as it was, his stomach feeling tight and heavy with anxiety. The food had to be forced down his throat.

"France was lookin' for you." America broke the silence, smacking his lips and dropping his empty bowl like the last few minutes hadn't been entirely tense and awkward. "He's diggin' himself a shallow grave with all that pacing."

Canada could see America eyeing the food left over in his bowl, and he handed it over with a mock scowl. It was only going to make him feel sick, anyway. "Why didn't you say so? Watch Prussia while I'm gone. If he wakes up… don't do anything stupid."

"Hey!" America exclaimed. "I ain't that dumb!"

"That's debateable," Canada replied, waving a dismissive hand. He struggled his way out of the tent, a wry grin crossing his lips as he heard America call his retreating back a jackass.

* * *

Darkness had fallen completely on the campsite, but as it always was with the military, no one really seemed to sleep. To make up for the absence of stars, the glowing ends of cigarettes flashed beneath the brims of soldiers' helmet. Flashlights lit their boots and speech drifted on a breeze that carried winter's coming chill.

Canada made his way around a truck, receiving a grin and casual salute from one of his own soldiers with an open tin of beans in his hands. "Bonnefoy was askin' for ya," he said. "He looked a right mess. He's going off his rocker."

Canada nodded faintly, offering his own easy salute before swiftly moving on. Nothing showed on his face, but his stomach sank with every squelch of his boots in foot-churned mud. He wondered if it would be better that France already knew about Prussia's arrival, or if he would have to tell the man himself. Either way, the outcome would be anything but pleasant for him. The last thing France was going to do was welcome Prussia with open arms.

The further into the camp he pushed, the busier it got. He was shooting for the large tent he had seen England beside earlier, but it looked abandoned – tent flaps wide open, lamps doused, and England's desk unoccupied. With a frown tugging at his lips, Canada grabbed the arm of a passing nation, his odd hair curl brushing against Canada's cheek.

The nation he had grabbed was Italy, the baby faced, golden-eyed country who had neither brawns nor much brains. The Italian nation was lean, a body that was definitely not fit for battle. Despite Germany's gruelling training, Italy had the body of a runner, not a fighter. And now, he only looked worse for wear, wet and shivering under his coat.

"Italy, can I ask you something?" Canada started politely.

Italy looked up at him through long dark eyelashes, a look of confusion upon his face that Canada knew the cause of very well. He waited a moment, until the look of dawning realization shone on Italy's face. "Oh! Mr. Canada! Hi there!" he greeted loudly, much the slight annoyance of the North American nation. There were humans here. Couldn't Italy be just a little bit quieter, for that reason alone? "What is it you would like to ask Italy?"

Well, there was no use dancing around his question, Canada supposed. He might as well get right to it. "Italy, you send letters to Germany, don't you?" he asked bluntly.

Italy blinked as though he didn't understand, and opened his mouth to protest, or perhaps deny Canada's words. Or, at least that's what Canada guessed. He cut off his fellow nation at the pass. "I know you do," he said. "I've seen them."

Out of the corner of his eye, Canada spied France, who stood with two other men, a look of pain upon his face. That sinking feeling hit Canada twice as hard and he had to force his feet to stay put for a few more moments longer. This was important.

Tears rose in Italy's eyes, and Canada stepped back, alarmed. What had he said to upset the older nation? "Okay!" Italy exclaimed. "I do, I do! Italy is sorry!" He leaped forward, latching himself around Canada's waist, burying his face in the Canadian's uniform. "Mr. Canada won't tell England, right? Or America? I know I'm not supposed to send letters to Germany, but…" His lip shook violently. "But Germany is Italy's friend! I don't want to get in trouble!"

Canada blinked, bemused, and patted Italy's back awkwardly. He really didn't understand England's insistence to keep the Italian nation within their camp, where the Allies could keep an eye on him, when it was painfully obvious that he wouldn't be a danger to anyone, nation or otherwise. "No, I won't tell anyone, Italy. I promise. I just needed to know." As the Italian sniffled, Canada switched to rubbing his back gently, feeling the heat rise in his face. America would get a kick out of this. "But… can I ask you another thing, Italy?"

Italy looked up slightly, eyes still watery. "What is it, Mr. Canada?"

"Can you send a letter to Germany for me?"

The Italian nation blinked confusedly, cocking his head to the side slightly. His expression of despair had been replaced with one of honest curiosity. "Why, Mr. Canada? Why do you want to send a letter to Germany?"

Canada paused, searching for the right words. "I just… I have something he needs to know about. It's important."

Italy's eyes lit up excitedly, grinning widely. His arms loosened from around Canada's waist and instead came to rest on his chest – as if Italy thought nothing of the rather personal contact… which, if Canada thought about it for a moment, he probably didn't. "Is it true, then?"

The Canadian blinked, feeling his stomach flip. "Is what true?" he asked cautiously.

"Is Gilbert niichan here?"

Canada's eyes widened in alarm. He reached up, trapping Italy's hands in his own larger ones as he leaned closer and whispered, "Who told you that?" God, it was probably America and his big mouth. And if Italy knew, who else did? France? _England_?

"Um… it was Mr. America…" Italy muttered, though the excitement hadn't let his eyes. Canada's eyes narrowed and he frowned. He was going to flay America himself for this. "So! Is it true? Is it true?" Italy asked.

Canada, seeing no point in lying to the older nation, sighed. "If I tell you yes, will you promise not to tell _anyone _else? You cannot open your mouth around England especially," Canada warned, blowing his hair curl out of his eyes. As Italy nodded frantically, grinning widely, Canada released another sigh. "Yes, it's true. Now, will you send Germany that letter for me?"

Italy nodded, and Canada released his hands. "Okay, Mr. Canada. But… Germany never reads my letters. My other boss told me he _burns _them." Canada could see tears rising in Italy's eyes, and he swallowed deeply, preparing himself to get the air squeezed out of him once again. "I don't know if he'll read yours, either…"

"He might not," Canada conceded. He honestly wasn't expecting Germany to bother with his letter, but he could at least try. "But I didn't sign it, and it's important that I at least try to send it. I would feel guilty if he worried himself over Prussia and I could have done something to maybe lessen his worrying. Do you understand why I'm doing this, Italy?" he asked, eyes gentle and voice soft. It was at least worth a shot, he supposed.

Italy took the little slip of paper Canada pulled out of his pocket, folding it smaller and tucking it into his own uniform pocket. "Um…" he muttered. "Can I see niichan, later? It's been a really long time since I saw him or Germany…"

Canada nodded without another thought, eyes flickering towards the outline of the note in Italy's pocket. It didn't look overly suspicious, and chances were that nobody would see it unless they were looking for it. "Of course you can, Italy," he said kindly. "Just… be careful to keep an eye out for England. He doesn't know about Prussia, and I want to keep it a secret as long as possible." He held up a finger to his lips and pulled a small smile as Italy mirrored the gesture. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "This means a lot to me."

"No problem! Italy is on the job!" A grin broke out on the older nation's face and he instantly picked up his heels. Canada heard him humming a little cheerful song to himself as he left, but his mind was already elsewhere – on France and the two men, deep in discussion.

Like he could feel Canada's eyes on him, France turned his head and met the Canadian's gaze head on, a worried frown turning down the corners of his mouth. Canada stood where he was, and didn't move a muscle, watching the older nation dismiss the two men. He seemed exhausted, one side of his coat absolutely caked with mud, a faint limp to his step as he turned and started towards one of the tents, nodding his head for Canada to follow him.

Physically, France was only a little left of thirty, but the war had aged him. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and there were lines in his face where lines had not been before. Canada wouldn't be surprised if he could somehow find a grey hair somewhere within the formerly luscious blond locks. Now, France's hair was rough and shaggy and uneven, hanging from his head limply, creating a mask of a weak defense from the rest of the world.

"Matthieu," France greeted as Canada followed him through the tent opening, sitting down in a chair they must have dragged back from the town ruins. "Mon cher. I've been looking for you everywhere. Why can I never find you when I need you?"

"Désolé, Francis." Canada bowed his head. "I was attending the wounded."

France hummed. "Stuffing your face avec Amérique is more like it, hmm?" Canada couldn't help the little smile that crossed his face – he had missed being able to talk like this. He had managed to push most of the bitterness he had felt towards France to the back of his mind a long, long time ago. "And you used to be such a polite child…"

They both chuckled at that. There was a good vibe in the air, and the last thing Canada wanted to do was destroy it with his little announcement. So, instead, he said, "Surely you can't blame me, Francis. Alfred is a bit influence." Grinning lopsidedly, Canada dragged a rusty fold out chair to the deck and sat down into it, the cold radiating through the seat of his trousers uncomfortable. He shifted slightly.

Then, France sighed, and just like that, the happiness was gone. The room had developed a solemn and serious air all over again – not that war allowed a lot of room for positive feelings in the first place. "Angleterre has ordered the removal of our enemies so the Battalion can move through," France said drearily, massaging the bridge of nose tiredly. He looked utterly exhausted.

Canada blinked. "What, the whole Company?"

"Non." France's shoulders seemed to sag, and Canada's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. "We only need a small group. You are leading."

Canada was silent, his breath coming out in a fast whoosh as he closed his eyes. He could feel France's eyes on him as his body shook in tremors, and he knew he would have to stop them completely before he could bear to face his elder. France was going to think he was scared of leading – which, God no, he wasn't. He was only _relieved. _It only took a second to regain control of his body once again, but a second was too long. His reaction had only seemed to add another thousand pounds to the weight on France's shoulders.

In silence, he nodded his head for France to continue, and kept quiet as France smoothed out a map on the table. He had led his troops into battle many times by himself – and had been victorious many a time before. A brief memory of Vimy Ridge popped into his mind, and a little smirk quickly passed on his face, before he gave his full attention to France.

Slowly, France explained where each and every one of the trenches were, pointing out the approximate location of a bunker while he was at it. "We believe it is a radio bunker," he said. Next, he pointed out the three guns set up along the trenches, which had taken out the first set of soldiers they had sent to get through. "To prevent this," he continued, "you are going to follow this ditch," he traced said ditch with a finger, "west, get in behind the trenches and advance from there."

"Behind the…" Canada paused, trailing off. "But there could be an entire battalion back there." He blinked, questioning. "We would be walking right into them."

"That is why Angleterre is only sending a few of you. He believes that you can sneak in by the guard unnoticed and take the trenches. Once the guns are out, it will be clear to send in the Company proper."

Canada could feel an anxious itch beginning to form on the soles of his feet, one that he had been long familiar with, but he was already resigned to the orders. He just had another long, frozen night to look forward to – along with the added effects of his other soldiers. He would be amongst his own countrymen, strategizing and wondering if this would be the last unpleasant night on earth for any of them. Such was war.

"I know what this is asking of you, Matthieu…" France began, and Canada's shoulders drooped. So, France _had _taken his earlier shaking as fear.

"I'm not afraid, Francis," Matthew reassured, trying for a gentle smile to further prove his point. "I'm just… I thought you were leaving again."

"Oh." France's own smile was fleeting. "Not for a while, mon chou." He reached across the table, and Canada met his hand halfway, squeezing gently, mindful of the man's injuries. He could feel his body beginning to warm at the contact, spreading from the palm of his hand up into his chest, and he suddenly realized just how much he had missed being like this. It had been far too long since they could be Francis and Matthew, and not France and Canada. "I have missed you, as well. But do not worry, cher, I am not made of class."

Canada nodded, but did not increase nor decrease the pressure he held on the older nation's hand. He was comfortable this way. "Do I get to choose who I'm talking with me?" he asked.

"It is all up to you, cher."

Canada nodded, eyes trained on the muddy, worn toes of his boots. America was not going to be happy about this, especially when Canada told him that he wasn't allowing his brother to come along. As much as he trusted America at his side, he refused to put the younger nation in unnecessary danger if he could damn well help it. He had to be the responsible one out of the two of them. That's the way it had always been.

Canada looked up for a moment, meeting the dull, tired eyes of France. He took a breath; it was now or never. "Um… I have… something to confess." He ducked his head again, using his free hand to scratch the back of his head in a blatant nervous habit.

France sighed, already sounding vaguely disappointed and oh so exhausted. "What is it, mon cher? Did you break another supply truck?"

"That was Alfred!" Canada defended immediately, but pulled himself back. He shrank back in his seat slightly. "No. It's not that. I… uh… might have disobeyed a direct order." The words came out rushed, and Canada coughed into his hand awkwardly, watching confusion being chased away by something akin to alarm.

"What did you do, Matthieu?"

"England said no prisoners… I got us a prisoner." Canada attempted to shrug it off, like it was hardly anything that mattered, but he knew what it meant. Disobedience was a crime – and a crime to be punished, at that, even among fellow nations. And England, if so he wanted to be, was judge, jury and executioner.

"You… captured a German?"

Canada watched France's face carefully, blue eyes bordering on violet locking on another pair of damped blue eyes. There was no anger in France's face… _yet. _"Well, no… I didn't capture a German, exactly…" France's face fell flat. "I got a Prussian, actually. _The _Prussian."

France sighed, trying to rub the creases from his forehead. He didn't look angry at all, but instead disappointed. And for some reason, that hurt more than the anger would have. "Mon cher, let me get this straight…" France muttered. "_Prussia _is in the camp? You have captured _Prussia_?" He sounded as though he almost didn't believe what he was hearing.

Canada pulled his hand back, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves anxiously. "He required medical attention," he murmured quietly. "I… I didn't know what else to do." Canada dropped his head.

"Mon cher… _why_?"

Canada hesitated. "Well… um… He didn't try to kill me." When there was no sudden look of dawning comprehension on France's face, Canada rushed to explain, repeating nearly exactly what he had recounted to America. His words came out rushed, jumbled in a mess of quiet whispers, but France seemed to hear him well enough. "How could I possibly leave him?" Canada asked after he had finished telling the story.

France sighed once again. Now, it seemed as though he had given up on trying to talk any sense into his former charge, though Canada didn't think he had been intending to try in the first place. "Cher, your kindness will one day be the death of you. Mark my words," Francis warned, standing from his seat. "What do you propose we do with him?"

"Um, keep him here until we get to the base camp, and then send him to POW camp…"

France nodded his agreement. "Does Angleterre know?"

Canada shook his head, though France had turned away from him. It was a natural reaction. "Um… no…"

"Do you plan to keep it that way?"

"As long as possible," Canada replied.

"Bon chance, Matthieu."

Canada nodded, hunching it on himself and shivering in his clothes. He didn't flinch at the distant, sudden crack of a gun firing – it was a sound he knew all too well, at this point. "I'm sorry, Francis." He wasn't apologizing for the act itself, but more for the extra weight he had burdening on his former caretaker's shoulders. It was not fair, but at least he knew that it would not slip to England – not coming from France, at least.

"Matthieu," France muttered, catching the Canadian's attention and making him raise his head weakly. "I cannot come close to understanding your reasoning." He smiled, though it didn't come close to touching his eyes. "But if this is what you think is best, I will not stop you. In this war, you are a soldier, not an executioner… But I do not think that Angleterre knows the difference anymore."

* * *

**Translations:  
**Mon chou – Literally translates to 'my cabbage', but it's more of a pet name, very similar to 'mon cher'  
Bon chance – Good luck

**A/N **;; So, I think it's safe to say that I cannot still serious!France. He's so… not France-like. I tried to think of how he would be split between German-occupied France and the FFF, but I don't think I ended up writing it very well.

**Dragon Silhouette: **I'm glad you enjoyed my OC! I was worried he wouldn't be liked, especially in a series like Hetalia – where there are just so many characters that you usually shouldn't have to resort to using an OC. As for your question, it completely depends on which part of 1944 you're talking about. It was during late 1944 that Finland signed a… peace treaty, I believe, and agreed to expel German forces from the country. (I don't have internet at the time of writing this review reply. I'm going completely off my memory here.) Yes, I believe France has very good healthcare – ranked best in the world by WHO in... 2000 something. 2006, I believe. And yes, France was occupied from 1940 to 1944, and the liberation began with Normandy. Paris was liberated in August of the same year.

**Elisabeth Day: **You're watching the IIHF World Championships, too? _Awesome. _I've been watching as many games as I can – I absolutely _adore _hockey. Anyway! Enough about hockey! I'm glad that you didn't feel as though I forced my OC in – I was nervous about how well he would be received. Thank you for your review, as always!

Reviews are worshipped.

Stay awesome, guys.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N **;; So… guys… I heard that some of you wanted me "to get the romance going", as one reviewer said (which honestly made me laugh, so thank you for that, **Elisabeth Day**). Well, here's some interaction for you! Fresh out of the metaphorical oven!

Anyway, there are a couple little headcanons in here. One is, and I'm sure anyone who had read a PruCan story before **Equilibrium **has heard of this one: Prussia first met Canada when he was still a French colony. -gasp- You guys totally haven't read this one before, right?

Secondly (and this one I honestly haven't seen much _at all_) is that the Prussia we all know and love was originally born as Prūsa, which was a Baltic region in Central Europe later invaded by the Teutonic Knights. -hint, hint, nudge, nudge- If you're curious about this, do a bit of research on it, but I think I might cover a few more details of this headcanon later in the story. I don't know about that. We'll see.

**[Not edited, because I like this chapter just the way it is. :3]**

* * *

**The Spoils of War**

**…o…**

**Chapter Seven**

**…o…**

* * *

He woke to cold and darkness, confusion and the pitch blackness a muffler to his mind, letting him float for a moment in the thick blanket of a shattered consciousness. This blindness, and the silence of all but his body breathing, removed the limits of reality. His own too quick heartbeat was an unsettling rhythm to memory.

He was a new nation, huddling for warmth in the forests of his new land – Prūsa.

He was a Knight now, sharing a bed with Hungary, waiting for the sun to rise and yet another battle to begin.

He was a Duchy now, no longer split between two sides of himself, but still betrayed and under the property of Poland.

He was Brandenburg-Prussia now, fighting against his own little brother in the Thirty Years' War.

He was a Kingdom now – one of the strongest in Europe – with Germany under his wing and the greatest king in all of history leading his _empire. _He was _awesome._

He was none of those now.

An image of his own bloody hands, a knife sticking grotesquely, horrifically, from his own stomach flashed as pain through his mind. The pain knocked the air from his lungs in a moan, pain like the shockwaves of a bomb rattling his body, pain like he had never experienced before.

There was a gap in his mind – some important piece of information that evaded him and left a rising tide of fear in its wake, the debris of his rational mind lifted and thrown with uncertainty and the lingering poison of an inevitable death on the doorstep.

He took a deep, gasping breath and tried to stop the wheeze of pain that rose in his throat, the orders to shut up and stand straight on a constant loop in his head. Don't be weak. Don't ever complain. He warred with the faint want to cry, because this pain was too much, and goddammit, he _hated _himself for even thinking of giving it. Bathing in self-pity was not an option, but he couldn't see past the darkness and could barely feel past the pain. He didn't want to be here. He shouldn't be here at all.

His teeth sunk into his lip. Blood welled to swamp his tongue with hot salt and iron, but it didn't keep him quiet. He choked on his own air. His eyes flew open to blurring dull, dizzying spots of light beyond the canvas of a tent.

He hadn't realized his eyes were closed.

_Wait. A tent…_

With a low huff of breath, the man to his left moved, blankets and clothes shifting with a rustle. It caught him off guard, and on instinct, he stilled. The air in his lungs was as frozen as the arctic sea, a stranger's – though perhaps not a complete _stranger_, exactly; he thought he knew who this nation was – shadowed face swimming into view above him, all plains and darkness, the valleys of his skull made deep by the faint light filtering into the tent.

The man – no, boy – reached out and touched his shoulders, and he jerked as he realized his own chest was bare. The fingers, long, slender and roughened by war, were hot against his naked skin in contrast to the ice that held the rest of his body in a vicious grip. The air passing between his lips was but a faint mist.

He could remember, centuries and centuries ago, the feeling of those very same fingers grasping his own when France had introduced him to his newest colony – New France. He remembered big, wide blue eyes, a sweet face, and a cute little smile that he knew was hiding something beneath. Foolishly, he had found himself wishing that this boy's hands, so soft and so smooth, would never be forced to hold a weapon, would never become a witness to the horrors of war.

Oh, yes. He had been foolish indeed.

"Hell, Prussia, you're freezing," Canada mumbled, his words a confusing, blurred garble as he pulled a rough blanket up from where it had gathered on his stomach, tucking the scratchy, woollen ends around his chin.

Prussia growled low in his throat, but it did not deter the boy. If anything, it seemed to only _encourage _the younger nation, making him laugh quietly. "I know you hate this, Prussia," he said. "Trust me. I know. But please, for now, just deal with me…"

There was something wrong here. Something that didn't quite match up with the too intimate feeling of another nation's hands on his skin, and the kindness behind his actions. Something important. Something that would have elicited the feeling of fear in a weaker nation, but only had Prussia slamming his eyes closed once again.

"What… what the fuck…" It hurt to speak, his voice sounding as though he had screamed himself raw when, somehow, he knew he hadn't. He was so thirsty. And hungry. His stomach hurt, both with the lingering agony of a knife in his gut and the familiar feeling of hunger, like a wicked friend. When was the last time he'd had a proper meal? Years?

"Shhh," Canada whispered quietly. "Go back to sleep. You're okay." The nation ran too intimate fingers through his hair, like a parent would a child. And for a moment, just for a moment, it brought him back to his childhood, where Hungary would do the very same thing when she thought he was sleeping, or the women that had taken care of him while he was still a new nation, singing soft lullabies and assuring him that everything would turn out alright. But it was not those times anymore, hadn't been for a very long time, and Prussia's hand flew out to grasp Canada's wrist in an attempt to halt the gentle touches.

He caught the metallic glitter of dog tags in the corner of his eyes, hanging free from a uniform he knew in a way that brought no comfort. The particular fold of the collar against the boy's neck, the barely visible badges and buttons that would not match his own or those of his comrades…

The knowledge hit him like a tidal wave, the frozen impact of realization leaving him horrified and panicked in silence, his eyes fixed on the darkened face of an enemy. The gaps in his memory were being filled – the struggles, the attempted reassurances, the fact that that the little brat had _knocked him out. _

"Kanada," he said, his voice deceivingly flat. Monotonous. A dead contrast to the violence of emotion he felt. "What do you want from me?"

In his mind's eye, he recalled the pathetic feathered corpse cupped in the same hands that touched his skin. He remembered eyes as brilliantly blue as the seldom seen sky; he remembered his own debilitating inability to put pressure on the trigger. But the memory ended there.

Had mercy, one of his supposed final acts of humanity, been his saving grace, or was this a prolonged doom disguised as salvation?

Why was he not still in the old, rotted shell of a house?

Why was he not thankful that he was awake, and not stuck in an unconsciousness he couldn't hope to break himself of?

Why did he feel somehow cheated out of something that should have been his?

When the Canadian's silence stretched, he forced his frozen fingers from around the boy's wrist. There was little do, and far too many things to think about. He would be going nowhere with his body as it was, and even if it were not so, he had no battalion to return to. Not to mention, _he was in Allied territory. _The chances of him getting out unscathed were very un-awesomely low.

The town had been massacred. He had been a dog backed into a corner, bleeding out against the carpet, and though he had no doubt some men had retreated, many, if not most, would be dead. What other soldiers had he lost? Boys and men, his own citizens, Germany's soldiers, turned into mulch and garden compost. Their headstrong pride and sense of entitlement was splashed across the French countryside for all to see – in blood. They had all been dragged to Death's booted feet and left to his mercy.

He took a breath of cold air, the shivers that began to roll across his skin unsuppressed, thinking of the world beyond these flimsy tent walls, and the surreal protection of an enemy. This quiet was deceiving – the war still waged on. People still died. People still killed. Bombs were dropped. Orders were given. The world was still coming to an end.

"Why am I here?" His thought slipped out from his mouth, louder than he meant, and the sleeping man at his other side shifted. He grumbled and dragged part of the blanket from his skin as he sat up.

Canada, with a mutter, lay back down and tucked another blanket about them both. It was warm, he realized, with the Canadian's body heat, and though he was used to the sharing that came with hardship and war, he was not used to sharing with the enemy. The men he was supposed to kill, the men who tried to kill him. It made them people; it made them faces and names with wedding rings on their fingers and letters from loved ones in their pockets.

"You keep quiet, Prussia," Canada mumbled. "I'll keep you safe."

* * *

**A/N **;; We're pretty much going on double chapters from here on out – two Canada, two Prussia, etc. Also, Prussia's chapters should be about the same length as Canada's, and will read less sporadically – which was completely intentional, by the way, as they were designed to somewhat reflect his frame of mind.

I'm planning something rather large for next chapter which will, hopefully, lead to a very awesome PruCan moment. Depending on how well I write it, it could be coming rather soon actually. Oh, and speaking of the next chapter, there will be violence, though nothing really more than what I've already exposed you to in this story, so it shouldn't bother any of you. Just some guns. Some shooting. Some killing. You know… usual war stuff…

Thank you for all your opinions, readers! I'm honestly glad that this story isn't mind-numbingly boring, because that would be so _un_-awesome.

**The Lynx Wearing Eyeliner: **Uhm, no. Nations aren't immortal – they live as long as their country does. As for Rome… Rome is… I hate myself for saying this, but… Rome is _dead_. -sob- If you've read or watched the strip with Rome visiting Germany, he says that he had to ask God if he could come visit his cute grandson. Prussia is a special case, it seems, though there are plenty of theories as to why he's still around. Anyway, thank you for your review!

**Elisabeth Day: **Ahaha, I took your advice and wrote this chapter early. It wasn't supposed to happen for another chapter yet, but I thought that was too long. And I'm trying as hard as I can to catch every game possible from the championships, but it's really hard. Canada got into the quarter finals and so did Finland, for the Helsinki pool. (All the games are available on Youtube, I heard, but they aren't available in Canada…) Ah, I'm so excited~ I heard Canada is playing Sweden, so I have to watch that!

**Minooshka: **Ah… That is such a wonderful compliment. Thank you so much. I don't know about most people, but I don't think I could stand to write a cracky or funny WWII story (or concerning _any _war, actually). It just doesn't sit right with me. As for your questions… _you'll see. _


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N **;; Okay, first things first! I changed the title of this story! Sorry to any confusion this may have caused, but along with a title change, this story has received a pretty big edit. I tried to fix up most of the grammar/spelling typos, fixed up loose ends of the plot, decided _a fucking season for this story_ (finally), added characters (Italy), etc. I just tried to make this story better for everyone! :3

But besides that… You know, I would have liked to have this chapter out a lot earlier, but as I was writing this, I ended up listening to the song featured in _Prussia, what is this? I don't even… _– which is an amazing song, by the way, and I recommend listening to it – which totally and completely ruined the mood I had going. I had to wait nearly an entire week before I was back in the right mindset, because I have to be in a certain mood in order to write merciless carnage.

Anyway, there are a couple different OCs in this chapter. Don't worry, they aren't overly important characters. They might show up again, just as a mention.

_Okay, _one more thing! I'm moving to Ontario this Sunday morning, so that means that updates for this story are virtually going to come to a standstill until I have moved into my new place and have the internet all set up and such. That means that this story probably won't be updated in maybe… a month, maybe two… maybe even three. I'm not sure.

**I think this chapter deserves a little bit of a warning**. As said above, there is merciless carnage in this chapter, as well as a bit of detailed deaths. If any of this makes you squeamish, well, um… Skip the chapter, I guess?

* * *

**The Spoils of War**

**…o… **

**Chapter Eight**

**…o…**

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The dawn was dark, looking more like the wee hours of the morning rather than sunrise, a feeble bleed of grey that shivered along the ridges of the frostbitten ground. The earth was all muted colour and starched, stiff silence that seemed more suited to accompany a procession of the dead. The air was breathless, cool and icy, stealing the warmth from the men's lungs in the thin clouds that formed before their noses and mouths as they breathed.

The men slunk on their bellies like snakes, the frozen grass and frozen earth biting at their naked fingers as they moved at a snail's pace as they weaved their way through bracken and brambles. The feet of booted men shuffled not even twenty paces from their position, guards on watch, cold fingers wrapped around steaming mugs and exchanging only the occasional quiet word in German. All it would take would be one misplaced movement, one too keen look, and they would all be seen.

The alarm would go up; bullets would tear through their weak skin, splashing red across the roots of the trees around them. The warmth would disappear quickly from their bones, leaving them cold to the touch. Frost would embrace their waxy skin and freeze over their glazed eyes, stiff and silent, unblinking, unmoving. None of the humans here would survive if any of them were seen. But Canada was not thinking about death.

He was not thinking about all the things these men would never do if they died, all the things they would leave unsaid, all the loved ones they would leave behind. He was not thinking about how he was responsible for each and every one of the seven men who followed behind him. He was not thinking about how cruel it was, that if any of them happened to die, they would become nothing more than just another name on the list of casualties. No, he had already thought about all of that. He had spent the entire night imagining these things as Prussia tossed and shivered fitfully in his sleep, mumbling words in German that Canada couldn't hope to understand.

Instead, Canada was thinking about the position of his hands as he eased himself around the trunk of a thick tree. He thought about where to shift his weight, where not to move his rifle as to not cause a disturbance. His eyes constantly flickered back to check on the progress of his soldiers, his responsibilities, behind him.

They crested a small ridge, the forest floor clearing for them to see the thickly gouged trench. The trench itself was seven feet across, the walls supported by felled timber, sloping faintly with the land. Canada twisted slightly, signing back what his soldiers needed to know: Six Krauts, three guns, twenty feet apart. Bunker on the western end. Break up into three groups. Three take the central gunners; two take the far Eastern, and two with me. On my signal.

Privates Bright and Ruiz followed him, both his own countrymen. He had confidence in their skills, remembering having seen both of them during their training before they had landed. They had stuck out from among the rest, showing off exemplary skills. But, even with his own reassurances, Canada could feel his heart beating in his chest. His mind was keen. In that moment, there was no fear to spare. As Canada turned and moved back, silently, along the ridge, Bright went to take his place.

The soldier was poised with his finger on the trigger, empty green eyes focused on the men he intended to kill if Canada so gave him the signal – the Germans, who were blowing on their fingers and sipping at their mugs to keep warm. There was an older man and a younger soldier, standing side by side. They were relaxed, unafraid, unaware of the danger waiting with unshakeable patience.

"Sie sind gehen nach Hause?" the younger German asked, elbowing his elder slightly to get his attention.

"Ja," the older man replied. "Es is gut, huh?"

"Sie glücklicher Bastard. Ich bin so eifersüchtig!" the first one exclaimed, scowling before he seemingly couldn't hold the expression anymore and broke into a little grin.

The Germans were smiling over whatever they were talking about, their necklaces of brass ammunition shining in the low light as the older one shook with laughter. The scowl returned on the younger German's face as his elder slapped him lightly on the shoulder, still grinning. They shuffled their feet together in an attempt to keep themselves warm.

Canada caught the signal from the third team, farthest down the trench. His fingers clenched around one of his smoke grenades before he quickly pulled the pin and threw it.

The guards heard the thump, jerking around to face the source of the sound, and Canada dropped into the trench, bayonet raised. His face was a mask of cold apathy as he buried his blade into one of the men's backs. The red smoke coming from the grenade billowed around to swallow the German's body as he crumbled, looking dazed and confused, shock registering on his face for a split second as he stared down at his own chest as blood pooled under his uniform.

A spray of bullets jerked the second German forward as though he had been struck by a live wire. Canada planted his boot on the first German's back and yanked out his bloodied bayonet, listening to the crack of gunfire as it invaded the frosted silence, battle cries from and Axis and Allied side alike mixing in the air to make a cacophony of screams.

Canada disengaged the bayonet, ducking down as bullets bit at the edge of the trench. Another one of the German guards was firing on them from near the trunk of a massive tree, spraying the air with dirt and sand. With smoke still swathing around his legs and billowing out of the trench, it made for difficult visibility, but Canada still managed to yank the German deployable machine gun from its place on the trench and plant it on the other side.

He heard the jingle of ammunition as one of his soldiers stripped the dead men of their necklaces of bullets. As Canada stepped aside, Ruiz took over operation of the gun, while Bright fed it bullets. The blaze of fire that followed rippled in shock waves throughout Canada's chest. Each spark of light that cut through the smoke and sand was quickly swallowed whole, leaving them to fire blindly in the assumed direction of their enemy.

They had approximately a minute and forty-five seconds to hold the trench down before the company proper arrived. One minute and forty-five seconds for seven men to hold off what could be more than one hundred Germans.

There was already a second machine gun roaring a little bit down the way, but with his vision blurred by pink tinged smoke, Canada couldn't tell whether it was a German or one of his own soldiers who manned it. Taking in a deep breath of acrid air, Canada quickly gave his head a shake, trying to get rid some of the disorientation he felt, before he spun on his heel.

His boots slapped against the frozen earth as he ran, numb legs screaming to life with the sudden rush of adrenaline he could feel pumping through his body. Everything was white before his eyes, the trench walls swathed and dark until he cleared from the smoke, breaking into the grey darkness only to come face to face with a grey uniform.

He could see fear there, on the nameless German's face. The soldier was perhaps no more than sixteen years old, another child who was a witness to all the horrors the world had to offer. Canada hesitated for a moment, uncertainty making itself known on his face, and the German boy took the little window of opportunity while it was there.

Canada snapped to attention just in time, only managing to stop the blade from gutting him within a hair of a breath, their rifles smacking together with the clack of wood and metal. The German boy's foot slid back, preparing himself for another attack, locking his bayonet in place as his eyes narrowed in determination.

However, Canada was faster.

He didn't bother to debate with himself any longer. The butt of Canada's gun smacked the soldier's face and the kid went down with a kick to the chest. The fall knocked the breath from his lungs, blood gushing from his shattered nose. The German's blue eyes were wide, absolutely terrified, as he was his own witness to his death falling like the blunt head of an axe. The second blow caved in his skull, Canada hearing the crack of bone and feeling the butt of his gun sink into flesh and brain matter. The nameless child was dead.

Canada did not spare the child another look as he sprinted along, already feeling the telltale nausea and guilt beginning to pool in his gut. He hated seeing children involved in war, no matter who they were and which nation they belonged to. Children were children. They were supposed to be innocent, not thrust into a war they should have never had to have any part in. He had seen far too many kids shot down in the line of battle.

Behind him, the sounds of shouts and gunfire were like a monster at his heels.

The cold, stale air stole from his lungs, the dome of the heavens opening above, letting in a brief moment of sunlight before the rain began to fall. It started as a trickle, though quickly shifted into a torrent, drenching Canada thoroughly, pasting his hair against his cheeks. Ahead of him, the dark mouth of the bunker gaped. He saw, in the hazy light, the shadowed outline of a man. He saw the edge of his helmet and the line of his gun, and automatically raised his rifle to fire.

He saw the figure jerk, then slump down against the door, lifeless. He slid to the floor, slowly, and Canada leapt over his sprawled legs. His gun was at the ready, but he wasn't prepared for the bullet that whipped so close to his face that he could feel the gust of air fly by his cheek, lifting his curl briefly before it settled back against his face.

Almost involuntarily, his finger jammed down on the trigger, the single round letting loose to smack into somebody's chest.

But when he saw who, Canada froze.

A woman stood there, her pistol sliding from limp fingers as she watched crimson blood bloom across the breast of her clothing. She staggered, black soldier's boots beneath the hem of her blue tattered dress, and Canada moved on instinct alone, dashing forward to catch her before she hit the ground.

"Je ne sais pas," she muttered, her lead lolling against his shoulder, all messy coils of dark hair and wide brown eyes. Her lips were moving, a soft murmur coming from her mouth, her last breaths escaping in frail clouds. "Je ne sais pas… Je ne sais pas." She repeated the same thing over and over again. "Je ne sais pas." I don't know.

"You're French?" Canada could hear the slight note of hysteria in his own voice, gripping the woman's shoulders and shaking her gently as her eyes slipped closed. He could feel a burn stinging in his throat, like bile, and a chasm opening up in his stomach. He had not just shot this girl, this innocent woman, had he? "What are you doing here?" he demanded, shaking her once more. "You aren't supposed to be here!"

"Je ne– je ne sais pas." She gasped, every breath sounding wet and gurgled. Her whole body jerked weakly as she coughed, blood oozing from the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin and staining her collarbone red. She was looking at him, straight into his eyes, imploring and accusing and dazed. Her hand was twitching spasmodically, and Canada could do nothing else but sit and watch in horror as the life faded rapidly from behind her eyes. She fell limply in his arms, her head lolling back to a painful angle, and Canada all but dropped her in his hurry to get away.

His breath was obnoxiously loud in his ears as he stood, staring down guiltily at the woman's corpse. His heart skipped an uneven beat in his chest, only managing to pull himself from his dazed state as he heard the sound of radio static behind him, filtering through his ears, and the occasional crack of garbled German sounding through on the speakers.

It was already too late when he heard the telltale smack of soldiers' boots outside, his rifle abandoned on the floor beside a sprawled tangle of dark curls. There were soldiers beyond the doorway, the clack of their weapons at the ready sending chills down Canada's spine. The only thought in his mind was that this was going to hurt like hell, and he briefly wondered how long it had been since he had had to play dead for his enemies. He wondered if he could still pull it off.

"Sir?"

Canada let out a deep breath of relief, looking towards the door of the bunker. It was only one of his soldiers, soaking wet and flanked with two other Privates. He saw their eyes flicker from the dead woman to him, trying to figure out the story behind it. He saw the questions on their faces, confusion blatantly present in their expressions, and Canada might have answered their questions had he known the answers himself. She wasn't supposed to be here. She was innocent. And what she had said… I don't know. She wasn't supposed to be here.

Schooling his face into a blank mask, Canada picked his rifle up off the floor. "Find a runner," he said. "Go report to Kirkland that the bunker is clean. The dead has to be searched. Papers, books, passports… anything that looks like it could be an official document… find them all." The calm in his voice was belied by the obvious shaking in his hands, and he could see the looks exchanged between the three soldiers. They were worried about him.

He clenched his rifle tightly, hardly sparing a moment's glance at the men as he pushed past them into the downpour. The shake of a mortar knocked dirt loose from the edges of the trench. His knees felt weak, and he almost stumbled over the corpse of a soldier with their face beaten in.

The smoke was very nearly cleared, and he saw the company pound in, their breathing harsh from their sprint across the fields. Canada reached the first gun where Ruiz stood with another man, peppering the German infantry trying to take shelter behind trees. "What's the news, Ruiz?" he asked, kicking at the dirt with his boot, feeling something soft underneath his foot.

As he looked down to the source of the softness, Canada could feel his heart leap into his throat as he noticed there were fingers beneath his boot, dirt caked beneath the nails and blood smeared across the palm. There was a bracelet wrapped around the wrist, heavy and silver, with a cross welded onto it. A few inches away from it, an arm lay, ending in shredded meat and a jagged spike of bone. There was no body to be seen.

He looked back up and met Ruiz's eyes, saw the blown pupils, and the shaking hands of shock. "P-private Bright… He… H-he…"

Canada knew, and he ignored the brief flash of grief he felt. Before Ruiz could continue, he cut the man off at the pass, asking the same question to the soldier, attempting to raise his voice over the noise. There was no time for sentimentality. Not right now, not when there was a battle going on around them. "What's going on here, Ruiz?"

"W-we've secured the trench, Sir!" There was a pause, the stutter of the machine gun as a German made a dash from behind a tree to a well hidden truck. The man made it about halfway before he fell flat on his face, a muffled yell coming from him as the gun flew from his hands and landed on the ground in front of him. "Estimates are w-we have about eighty Krauts holding the l-line here. They have… uh… they have m-mortars, and grenades, but they seem to be pretty l-low on rifle ammunition," Ruiz reported.

Canada nodded. With the toe of his boot, he kicked the severed hand away, bringing his rifle to his shoulder just as the trench was rocked with another mortar, closer this time to the second gun. A hole ripped into the earth, knocking down soldiers into the trench like bowling pins. Canada's eyes didn't linger on the sight to see who did and who didn't get up again, his eyes tearing across the woods for a glimpse for the telltale metal of a mortar.

He spotted the mortar, just in time to see another shell dropped into the tube, the two Germans twisting away from the gun and covering their ears as it went off. He saw the shell arc into the air and drop, landing just shy of the trench, sending dirt and splinters of wood into the air. He could feel the shock through his bones, stealing the air from his lungs. Distantly, he could hear someone yelling for a medic. Was Doctor Lewis here, too?

Canada shook his head, dismissing the thought. He had to take out the mortar.

Eyes searching, he noticed the mortar was set up close to the truck, and Canada waited to see the German arm another shell before pulling the trigger on his rifle. Bulls-eye. The man's body collapsed backwards, his comrade scrambling for the dropped mortar. It went off in his hands. The soldier was there one second, and gone the next, scattered in bits and pieces across the grass.

The force of the blast hit the truck, and Canada watched a fire catch. He watched the Germans around the vehicle scramble away from it, before the gas tank caught and the whole vehicle went up in flames. The sounds of the cracking and the screeching of metal, accompanied by breaking glass rose high above the gunfire. The flames engulfed the entire machine, catching on the brittle autumn trees before the rain could hope to douse it.

The ground was already littered with bodies, the Germans tripping over their own dead comrades as they ran for cover. Canada set his sights on a man picking himself up from the ground, his face splattered with mud, limping weakly. He put pressure on the trigger, feeling the jolt of the rifle shoot down his arm. But the bullet fell just shy, whipping by the soldier's face.

And just a moment before Canada could ready another shot, his target's hands flew up into the air. His weapon dropped to the ground, forgotten, and he stumbled forward, yelling something above the noise.

Surrender, much like death, takes only a second. The sound of dropped weapons and the ensuing, sudden, shocking quiet was real. Every German in the open stood with their palms raised towards the sky, rain drenched, water washing the dirt and blood from their hands. There was something akin to terror etched in on all their faces, eyes wide and terrified. The ones in hiding stepped out shakily, until there were near two dozen surrendering German soldiers.

Canada whipped freezing rain from his eyes and listened to the unnamed Private beside him gasp for air. There was silence, besides the rain and the crackling flames of the burning truck. There was a tension running through the trench like electricity, and, from the Germans, fear so obvious it was glaring in Canada's face. No one but he and a few others lowered their own weapons, waiting. But waiting for what, Canada didn't know? An order? Wasn't it obvious?

He saw the looks the Germans shot each from below, the raw panic burning in their eyes. One man, wobbling on his feet with his hands behind his head, shouted up at them. His voice cracked and shot through the air as though he were about to break down and cry. "W-wir ergeben uns! S-s-schiessen Sie nicht! Wir ergeben uns!"

"What's he saying?!" The yell made Canada visibly flinch, head whipping around to look at First Lieutenant Roberts, who was positioned near the second gun. Was the man stupid? What the man was saying was obvious. Where was France? Where was England? Why weren't they here? "Someone tell me what the fuck he's saying!"

"Sir, they're... um… They're surrendering, Sir," the translator spoke up.

"What? What the fuck? Why? Ask them why they're surrendering!" There was hysteria in Roberts' voice, and the troopers knew it. Canada could see the looks exchanged amongst them, the confusion and trepidation on the translator's face as he turned to look at the German speaker.

"Warum?" he asked, still not lowering his gun.

"Warum?" the German repeated. "Was meinen S-sie, warum? Wir… wir ergeben uns!" Even from here, the shake in the German's arm was visible, a tremble shaking his entire body violently. "Wir… s-sur-surrender! Surrender! Schiessen Sie uns n-nicht! Bitte! Bitte!"

Roberts lowered his weapon, his hand flying to the back of his helmet as he looked around. He muttered low words to himself under his breath, very aware of every eye, both Allied and Axis, being turned in his direction, waiting for his decision. Canada was absolutely appalled. No one opened their mouths. No one moved. Ruiz, right next to Canada, was crying, fingers clenched in the sodden sleeves of his own coat.

Their fate was sealed when the German speaker lowered his arms, hands out, palms open, and stumbled forward. The movement had every Allied soldier jerking, Roberts' head whipping up, his decision made. The order cut through the rain like a gunshot, "Shoot!"

Canada could come up with a million reasons as to why the soldiers around him obeyed, why he didn't speak out sooner, why he didn't open his mouth in protest. It was the tension. It was the instinctive reflex to obey an order delivered with such force. It was the fear that gripped each and every one of them. But none of it would ever really absolve the soldiers who put pressure on their triggers and executed twenty-three unarmed men. Not in Canada's mind, and he was sure, certainly not in their own, either.

His own rifle stayed hanging limply from his fingers; the blaze of fire shredding the quiet for far longer than it should have, making way for the grand entrance of utter and complete silence. Silence like Canada had never heard before, unable to tear his eyes away from the bloodied corpses that littered the ground. His eyes were drawn to the pale faces, the wide, horrified eyes forever frozen, before it all seemed to sink in.

The Private at the machine gun jerked his hands away from the weapon as though it burned him. In Ruiz's hands, the hot rifle wobbled with earthquake tremors. Roberts leaned against the trench wall and sunk, slowly, into the mud, his face buried in his hands.

Canada felt cold. He felt frozen. It wasn't just the rain that was causing this feeling. His heart was pounding in his chest, breathing hard, and unbidden, the woman he had shot flashed up behind his eyes. He could see the blue dress she wore up around her knees as she had fallen, the boots she wore so out of place on her thin, feminine legs. He could her hands by her face, palms up.

Canada's eyes clamped shut tightly, but the image wouldn't leave his mind. Her words, the smashed in, broken face of the young soldier he had bludgeoned to death. The hand… Bright's hand… the horrified, terrified, pleading German man…

When he opened his eyes again, the entire world seemed surreal, swathed in grey and utterly colourless. The flaming truck and the last remaining bright red leaves on the trees were too bright in their contrast. Even Ruiz, who was standing right beside him, seemed a mile away.

"D squad!" Canada announced, the faces of his remaining soldiers snapping towards him as his voice rang out. Their eyes rested on him, but Canada didn't feel anything like himself. This voice… it was not his own; it was rising, powerful and confident. He couldn't recognize himself. His face would move as it should. "Search the dead. Scout out this entire area! Lieutenant Roberts, pull yourself together and move these men out of this trench! Move!"

Like he expected, as though nothing had happened, as though they hadn't just committed a massacre, like they weren't all shaken and scarred, the troopers jumped into action. Two soldiers worked together to haul Roberts off the ground, D squad hauling themselves out of the trench, beginning to shove bodies around with their boots.

Canada turned away from the sight, taking in a breath, and turning his eyes towards the Private by the machine gun. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Walker, Sir. Private Stuart Walker. I just joined the company."

"Got any nicknames, Walker?"

"They called me Bubbles before Normandy, Sir. It kind of stuck."

"Do you know what Bubbles means?" Canada asked, pasting a smile on his mouth. It hurt his face to do some, didn't come close to touching the glacier in his chest, but the pale faced 'Bubbles' smiled tentatively back.

"No, I don't, Sir. Would you care to enlighten me, Sir?"

"I would, but I don't have a clue myself. Have you met Private Ruiz, here?" It wasn't really a question meant to be answered. Canada turned towards Ruiz and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Ruiz didn't even blink, his eyes fixed on the muddy trench floor and, Canada noticed, the severed hand of his friend. Where on earth on Bright's body gone? "Would you care to do me a favour, Bubbles? Please take Ruiz back to camp, sit him down, and get him something hot to drink. Get something for yourself as well, while you're at it."

Bubbles nodded, the too large helmet on his head wobbling slightly. He looked a little off, but Canada said nothing as Bubbles took Ruiz's arm and lead him slowly out of the trench. Canada kept his eyes on the two soldiers until they disappeared.

Canada swallowed deeply, trying to ignore the rising need to vomit, struggling to get a good grip on the trench wall and haul himself out. He could feel the tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, and he clenched his teeth against the familiar burn. He refused to cry. Not here.

Canada was surprised as one of the other Privates offered to help him out of the trench, both of them trudging away from the battle in silence, leaning off the support the other offered. The rain seemed endless, driven like little swords into their faces as the morning wind picked up.

This was not the way he had come to the trench, and now Canada was seeing up close the bodies that littered the field. All around him, the corpses of Americans and Canadians and British soldiers alike were surrounded by the bodies of Germans, and the eerie, burnt out skeleton of a Tiger 1. It was a testament to the battle he had not seen.

Canada could feel the shock settling in – everything around him had a strangely distant quality. He recognized the feeling as he noticed the way he didn't so much feel the rain as saw it and knew he was soaked to the core. He knew it by the feeling of the tightness in his chest, as though he wasn't getting quite enough air, and by the feeling of his knees feeling strangely weak, as if they would give out on him any moment.

He realized something was off as the Private righted his path into the camp, his hands shaking from where they gripped Canada's shoulders.

As they made their way deeper into the camp, Canada was confused; he saw the many soldiers paused in whatever they were doing, standing stock still at attention, all eyes locked on one thing. It left Canada with a metaphorical question mark hanging over his head until he saw England, storming out of his own tent with the look of utmost rage etched into his face.

France ran out after him, catching up to England's heel, trying in vain to stop the island nation from moving any closer to one of the tents. He yelled at England in a mixture of French and English as he yanked on the younger nation's arms, but England easily shoved him off, making France land in the dirt below.

Canada froze as he watched the scene, his heart dropping down into the pit of his stomach. His eyes traced England's movements, seeing just which tent he was heading towards.

It was _his _tent England had set his sights on.

_Oh, god… Prussia!_

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**Translations:  
**Sie Sind gehen nach Hause? – You are going home?  
Es is gut, huh? – It is good, huh?  
Sie glücklicher Bastard. Ich bin so eifersüchtig. – You lucky bastard. I'm so jealous.  
W-wir ergeben uns! – W-we surrender!  
S-s-schiessen Sie nicht! – Do not s-s-shoot!  
Warum? – Why?  
Was meinen S-sie warum? – What do you mean why?  
Bitte! – Please!

**A/N **;; Abrupt ending is abrupt. Next chapter features an angry England. France is obviously going to be there, as well, and maybe even Italy, but I haven't decided that part yet. There's PruCan in the next chapter, too, according to the outline I've created! I'm excited, guys. How about you?

**The Lynx Wearing Eyeliner: **Now, now… Why haven't you read the webcomic? You can't learn about the true feel of Hetalia without reading the actual strips. There's so much more character development in the strips that might never be featured in the anime. (Plus, the anime is completely crack, anyway – not that I don't love it, because I totally do, but it's… eh… And the subbed version stays truer to the strips, anyway.) It is completely worth reading. And Prussia still exists in my heart! He'll exist there _forever_!

**Elisabeth Day: **Hehe, I think you'll enjoy the next chapter. It has plenty of the interaction everyone has been waiting for. Plus, I enjoy writing protective!Canada, anyway. And I can totally imagine Finland getting pissed at Sweden for winning gold. That's a funny scene you provided me, and some nice info on their relationship. Thanks for your review, as always. :3

**IAmACAt: **Your very angry British scene is coming up next chapter. :3


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